


Freedom Summer, 1968

by Ryeheart



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Drama, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Human Bill Cipher, Multi, Sibling Incest, Smut, altered ages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-05-16 19:37:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 64,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14817605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryeheart/pseuds/Ryeheart
Summary: Dipper and Mabel are on the run from abusive parents, and catching rides with strangers has landed them in Gravity Falls, Oregon. Out of money and desperate for a place to sleep, the twins decide to break into a semi-rundown shack in the woods only to discover it's not nearly as abandoned as they'd hoped.On hold.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to our Gravity Falls story! Some things to know before reading: there are traces of non-tagged pairings but these will be extremely brief scenes, and period-typical homophobia is absent in this. We'll be updating tags when appropriate, as well as increasing the rating soon. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!

****"Mabel, I don't think this is working," Dipper said, his voice flat but containing an edge of anxiety as he pulled his soaked jacket into his shivering form even tighter. He and his twin sister had been waiting by the side of the road for what felt like hours, taking shelter from the downpour against a wooden welcome sign that announced they were just on the outskirts of a town named Gravity Falls.

“Don't be a downer, Dipper!” Mabel’s voice was cheery, seemingly unfazed by the hours they had wasted near the road while pouring rain battered them. She reached over to ruffle her brother's wet hair affectionately, Dipper smoothing it down and moving the mussed strands away from his face while Mabel babbled on. “Someone has to show up soon. Why else would there be a road here? You know what they say, bro-bro! All roads lead to home!”

They had taken a gamble, sticking it out in hopes a vehicle would come roaring through and give them a ride to the city. Get to the city, get jobs, and blend in until they were able to recreate better lives for themselves. Under fake identities, if they absolutely had to, because law enforcement would be searching for the two teenage runaways that'd stolen away in the night, equipped with their wits and the bare necessities. That was their plan, and while it was a bit rough, it was better than living with their _parents…_ if they could even be called that, considering how deeply they appeared to wish he and Mabel weren't bogging down their lives.

Leaving home at fifteen years old was no easy feat, much less one that Dipper thought he'd be taking a stab at during his lifetime, but there was only so much he could take from parents who didn't seem to care whether they were dead or alive.

However, there was an unmistakable flaw in Dipper's grand scheme. Not one vehicle had passed them in the time they'd been here. While he was aware the road was off the highway and slightly secluded, Dipper hadn't realized it'd be this difficult to catch another lift. The previous one had been alright, or at least it had been until the middle-aged driver started to make highly inappropriate passes at Mabel as they crossed the state line into Oregon. He had to have been three times her age, with a sinister smile that gave Dipper the heebie-jeebies. Witnessing how the driver's flirtatious behavior made his sister uncomfortable, Dipper had spoken for both of them in his sharp demand to be let out at the next stop. A risky move to make, as they could have been denied or simply stranded somewhere, the latter perhaps their actual reality. At the time, he hadn't understood why the driver had shrugged, chuckled knowingly, and did as asked without protest, but he was beginning to understand.

He stole a glance at the sign looming above them, the bolded letters offering a hearty sentiment that he couldn't share. The tagline, reading 'nothing to see here, folks', wasn't exactly reassuring, and almost mocking considering there'd been nobody _to_ see them.

At first perplexed by Mabel's response, Dipper blinked at her. "What? I'm not sure that's how it works." But it wasn't the time to worry about that, they had a more pressing problem to contend with. It was getting dark, shadows sweeping the land and encasing the twins within the wilderness, the moonlight fighting to break through the thickness of the surrounding trees. It was eery, and he was beginning to feel claustrophobic with the woods closing in on them. "We might want to give up on the road for tonight. Nobody's coming." It was empty and had remained empty for hours.

Mabel wasn’t sold, and he could see that in the way her eager eyes scanned the distance for movement. “Someone has to come,” Mabel insisted. “Maybe we should go further down the road. There could be someone closer to this...” she squinted at the sign, “Gravity Falls! Wow, that’s one dumb name. What does it even _mean_? Is it defying gravity? Ooh, do you think the town magically floats?”

"Mabel!" he strained, trying to grab her drifting attention. Although he wouldn't normally be irritated by Mabel's antics, Dipper's stress levels were peaking. He was scared, uncertain. His plan had gone awry, leaving him in a nervous state that was worsening as the woods grew darker since they were no better off than they were two hours ago in terms of shelter or reaching their destination. "We have to focus," he rose to his feet, wishing he had a pen to nibble on while he paced with his hands clasped behind his back. Struggling to formulate a backup plan, he recited the facts of the situation to himself. "It's getting dark, there are no cars, we still have our supplies..." he and Mabel both sported backpacks containing food and water, whatever clothing they could stuff inside, plus a couple personal keepsake items. "We can camp out nearby, just for this evening." Tomorrow, they could try the road again in what would preferably be better weather because he wasn't particularly fond of the drizzle that'd turned into a nonstop downpour less than an hour ago.

“That’s a dumber idea than this town's name!” Mabel stomped her foot into the ground, sending droplets of mud and water flying, Dipper's hands rising to shield himself from the spray. “We don’t even have shelter, Dipper. You’ll go from being a downer to being a _drowner_ in all this icky mud.”

It wasn't the time for corny puns, but Dipper ignored it in favor of addressing the bigger issue. "We can't stay out here all night, not next to a road!" Not just foolish and impractical, it was downright _dangerous_ despite the road's surprising lack of use… "And if we get going, we can gather some tree branches or brush or something, and make our own shelter." As far as Dipper was concerned, creating a makeshift campsite was their best option, the logical choice after taking their supplies into account. Remaining where they were was a risk he wasn't willing to bet on, and following the road would lead them into a town of questioning strangers who he didn't expect would be eager to usher in a set of runaways that'd shown up on their doorstep.

“I don’t want to be stuck under some leaky shelter because you wanted to recreate something you read _once_ in the paper.”

"Hey, those were quality tips!" Dipper immediately protested, unwilling to let that slide without defending his favorite columnist. He never had cared for television much, usually opting to bury his nose deep into the printed word, and "The Manly Man's Guide to Outdoor Living" was the specific article Mabel was referring to as she doubted his ability as a rugged woodsman. Dipper puffed his chest in a lame attempt to appear more capable, but that minor adjustment didn't change his gangly beanpole figure, nor did it substitute for the inch-and-a-half that Mabel had on him.

Before he could add anything more, Mabel ignored him and continued, “I never said we had to stay here all night, Dipper!” Her pleading gaze was fixed on him, and Dipper suppressed a sigh, posture deflating — it was hard to resist Mabel like this. “We should go toward the town before it gets too dark. That way, we’re bound to run into someone who can help us get to a real city.”

At the thought of going into town, fear struck into his heart. "Hasn't it occurred to you that we don't know these people?! We don't know anything about them, or this town!" a wild motion toward the wooden sign, an indication he was referring to the townsfolk of this apparent Gravity Falls. "No one will take us in, and if they do, what if they call the cops on us? Or are creepy, like that other guy? Or act completely kooky?"

“You’re the one acting all crazy!” Mabel’s voice had raised.

“I am not! I'm being _rational,_ there's a difference!"

“Yes you are! You’re starting to sound like dad after drinking, all paranoid about people! I’m sure the good people of Groovity Falls will find it in their gentle, sweet hearts to take in a couple strays like us.”

He rolled his eyes. "It's _Gravity_ Falls, actually."

“Same difference!”

“The point is," he said with more insistence, antsy to return to the topic at hand, "we have to think this through calmly and because I've already done that, I can tell you the clear-headed course of action is to set up a camp for ourselves."

With exasperation, Mabel threw up her hands. “Fine! We can set up camp, but if mud soaks through my sweater it’s _your_ fault, Dipper.”

He hadn't wanted the tension to come to this, the place of frustration where one of them was forced to angrily relented to the other's wishes. They were a team—partners in crime—on the run from an abusive household, and they had to work together if they were going to pull through successfully.

Guilt gnawing in the pit of his stomach, he squirmed to remove his jacket, grappling minimally with the straps of his backpack before he could slip the garment from his shoulders. Dipper offered it to Mabel with a small albeit sad half-smile on his lips. "Here, it sounds like you need it more than I do," he reasoned.

“I…” Mabel hesitated before she accepted the jacket, shuffling the backpack so she could slip into the relative warmth of the light coat. “Thanks, Dipper. You’re the best.”

Dipper let out a quiet laugh, using one hand to scratch self-consciously at the back of his neck, unsure how to respond to the genuine compliment. "I don't know about that, but uh, thanks."

As they walked, the stench of uneasiness hung in the air, suspended somewhere between panic and the disbelief that they were actually doing this. The severity of it hadn't set in yet, not for Dipper, since it felt like he should be returning home to squabbling parents any minute now. It wasn't the sort of squabbling that he and Mabel did as siblings; at the end of the day, they were still best friends. Contrastly, their parents' arguments were composed of seeking-to-emotionally-maim words launched at the other person, their sole intention to inflict as much hurt as possible.

Perhaps if he wasn't terribly distracted by the hopeless endeavor that was snagging a ride to the city and now hiking through the foreign wilderness of Gravity Falls, he'd ponder the question: have their parents noticed yet? And with a heavy heart, he'd use previous experiences as evidence to arrive at the conclusion that they hadn't.

After all, there'd been a slew of times he and Mabel had been forgotten at school and waited for hours for someone to pick them up just to trek the distance themselves in the dark, not to mention how many evenings their parents would rather go out together or with their own friends instead of their children. If repeated verbal reminders of their uselessness was icing on the cake, then being outright told they were unwanted was the cherry on top.

So if they had, by some miracle, noticed their disappearance, Dipper was certain they would have shrugged their shoulders and gone back to the television show they were watching, the activity that helped them float through life as if they had no dependents to begin with. They could pretend they hadn't accidentally gotten pregnant with twins, too early on in life to be financially or emotionally capable of caring for them. Television shows aided them in forgetting he and Mabel even existed, he imagined, and the proof that it worked astoundingly well was in front of them.

The _crack_ of the twig beneath his foot startled him, making him jump and disrupting his thoughts. Faced once more by the present, he couldn’t shake the haunted feeling that came with the looming, dark pine trees that surrounded them. In a way, it almost felt like they were being watched. Were woods always this creepy? He couldn't recall California ever giving him such chilling vibes.

Stealing a glance at Mabel, he noted how upbeat she looked with a starry-eyed gaze and beginnings of a grin, despite how she'd been less than thrilled to venture into the woods in search of a spot to take shelter. Instead of skirting the growing mud puddles as Dipper attempted to do, Mabel embraced the opportunity by jumping toward them with glee causing the dirty water to splash everywhere. Dodging the droplets was a pain, but not enough for Dipper to ask her to take it easy. It didn't matter when he was already soaked from head to toe from the rainwater. Always obsessed with plotting their next steps or fretting about the unknown, he wished he could be more like Mabel, carefree, optimistic—

"Dipper, watch out!"

Huh?

He hardly had time to react to her warning before his body came to a painful halt, colliding with something hard and wood-like and unyielding. While he was distracted by Mabel’s war on puddles, he had failed to see the tree in his walking path. “Oww,” he whined softly as he rubbed his head.

“Silly Dilly,” Mabel chided playfully. “I told you to watch out!”

A shudder as he rubbed the new pain point on his forehead, "Please, never call me that again." The wound stung enough to imply it was going to be quite an impressive bump, if not a full blown bruise.

“No promises!”

They walked on in silence for several minutes, Dipper's eyes scanning for a suitable location to take shelter in. He was forced to squint since the darkness was impeding his vision, limiting how far they could see before whatever laid ahead was wholly consumed by the blackness of night. "Do you see anywhere we can stay for the night?" He asked, glancing around. The woods looked just as uninviting as they had before, but significantly darker. Thin, pale beams were the only source of light, filtering through the trees and shining on the undergrowth.

Mabel shook her head. “Weren’t you the one who wanted to play Survivorboy and make a shelter out of sticks?”

"It's not that simple! We'll need sticks for the foundation, but we can make it moderately rain-proof with leaves and bushes." Dipper explained, rattling off bits of knowledge obtained from the newspaper article. "Then we can reinforce it with more sticks, and we'll have a solid shelter to sleep in." He could envision it perfectly: they would have a formidable, man-made shelter created from just the forest's resources. He could stand by his handiwork proudly, raise his chin, and gloat to Mabel, 'I told you so' as they took in the sight of their natural castle.

...It probably wouldn't be that good, but Dipper liked to believe it'd at least hold up under the pelting rain. "Once we have the supplies, it'll be a piece of cake. Maybe we should split up, grab anything useful that we find, and meet back here?"

“Okay...” Turning away from him, he watched as Mabel began to search for materials for his dream home.

Mabel's departure left Dipper alone with his thoughts, accompanied by his determination to make this work because he hated the thought of having dragged Mabel out here for it to be a catastrophic failure. His eyes narrowed to see in the darkness, collecting sticks that'd hold up their foundation whenever he saw one. It wasn't the most comfortable or easy process with his wet clothes clinging to him, and his shoes filled with water, but he was slowly building a decent pile of suitable twigs.

Careful not to stray far from their meeting place, Dipper remained nearby and listened for Mabel's footsteps; he didn't want her to wander off either. He knew Mabel could be distracted by the smallest of things, drawn away from the task at hand, and he wasn't going to lose her to the creepy woods. As runaways, the odds were already against them, and stacking extra challenges onto their plate wouldn't do them any good.

“Hey Dipper, I found something!” Mabel’s excited voice rang through the trees, the sound of feet splashing through water alerting Dipper to her rapid approach. “It’s a huge pile of sticks lumped together! Like someone already made a shelter, just for us!”

Startled, he followed the sound of her excited voice and watery footsteps. "What are you talking about? Is someone else living out here?" Encountering another person—a potentially dangerous stranger—in the middle of the woods on a dark, rainy night wasn't Dipper's idea of a nice time, and he was seconds away from telling Mabel they should return to the main road.

“Just look!” When he arrived by her side, she thrusted her arm out to point in the distance. Faintly, the silhouette of a shack could be seen, brightened by the ghostly moonlight. It formed the illusion that the cabin-like house was glowing with mysteriousness.

“Oh, that's great," his voice cracked, one hand running anxiously through his soaked hair as he surveyed the structure, "you’ve found a murder hut, Mabel.” Lone cabin in the middle of the woods, located on the edge of a sleepy, small town. That screamed safe, and totally wasn't reminiscent of the fairytale that ended with two children being nearly devoured by a witch.

“It doesn’t look so bad to me,” Mabel said. “Maybe they’ll take us in for the night! Or we can sneak in to get out of this storm!”

He made a face and shook his head, taking a cautionary step back, "Uh, no thanks. I would prefer to see the sunrise tomorrow." Whoever secluded themselves so far into the woods within a semi-broken down cabin couldn't be the friendliest or sanest sort, and Dipper didn't intend on meeting the owner tonight.

But by the time the words had left his mouth, Mabel was already running toward the building. She came to a stop beside one of the windows, her hands pushing against the window as she attempted to peer inside.

Eyes widening, he made a startled noise and bolted to eliminate the distance between them, grasping her shoulder urgently to stop his sister from advancing further. "What are you doing?!" it was a hiss of a whisper, keeping his voice down in fear of the cabin's inhabitant overhearing. "We can't just go inside!" He was desperate to change her mind, and he rambled, "What happened to making a shelter, or… or staying by the road? There's no need to _break into_ someone's home!"

A short laugh escaped Mabel, batting his hand off her shoulder. “What are you, a _chicken_? Nothing’s stopping us from going in… the place looks like no one’s lived here for years. Besides, if we go in we’ll get a _real_ shelter and we won’t be stranded outside in the storm."

"But, Mabel—!"

"Or are you too scared of being dry for once? I didn’t know chickens liked being wet! Bawk! Bawk! Bawk! That’s what you sound like, Dipper!”   

"I don't sound anything like that!" Exasperation bubbled in Dipper at Mabel's impression of a chicken, pacing as he tried to organize his thoughts. His mind was spinning too fast to come up with a reason good enough for Mabel, one that would convince her to leave this murder hut alone and never look back.

“Please, Dipper! You’re the one that wanted to go into the woods to begin with — why can’t we try my idea for once?”

At that, his resolve crumbled with pitiful swiftness. Dipper remembered their brief bickering near the road and how Mabel had trusted him to venture into the wilderness, and now he realized he would be a terrible brother if he didn't do the same for her. He stopped pacing to look seriously at Mabel, concern and anxiety etched into his features. "Are you sure?"

The look he received was grave, surprising Dipper since she rarely displayed such soberness. “I have never been more sure in my life.”

"Okay," he gave in with a sigh, working to muster a brave tone. "I.. I can go first." He could handle it, whatever was on the other side. A new plan was taking shape in his head, and he explained, "I'll go first, look around inside—hold on, let me get the flashlight out," he slipped the backpack from his shoulders, distracted by verbalizing the plan as he fished for the light, "and if it's safe, I'll call to you and then you can come—"

“Okay, but counter-plan: I beat you inside, and tell you if it’s safe, and then my Little Dippy bro-bro is safe and sound.”

He could hardly get a word in before she was pushing against the window. The frame lifted easily, as if nothing was keeping it in place, and a heartbeat later Mabel was pulling herself up and into the building. “Mabel!” No response, only silence – and after a moment or so of waiting, icy uneasiness settled in the pit of his stomach, pulse skyrocketing as he debated calling for her again.

“Omygosh Dipper, you need to see this!” Mabel’s voice was frantic. “There’re bones! I think a witch boiled it in a pot so the skin melted off! It’s so white!”

Horror latched onto Dipper immediately, but nagging at him was the urge to get beside Mabel; they could get out of this if they worked together, fight against whatever demon lived inside that cabin. Blood pounding in his ears as his body shook wildly in terror, he rushed to the window and carelessly launched himself through it, a singular thought repeating in his mind: get to Mabel and make sure she's safe. That was all that mattered. His own safety was secondary, fueling his impulsive moment of courageousness as he vaulted into the cabin without fretting over what was waiting for him on the other side.

The next thing he felt was his foot catching on the window's frame, a shrill and pained yelp escaping Dipper as his body gracelessly flopped forward, hands flailing, grasping for purchase but coming up short. Stumbling and struggling to regain his balance, he fell into something wooden and felt it give way a second later, a loud _CLASH!_ resounding throughout the entire building. Although the noise suggested he'd broken something made of glass, he was more concerned with how _he_ felt broken.

Dipper's lithe form was crumpled in a sad heap atop the wooden flooring, chest rising and falling erratically as he worked past the initial daze to conclude he was definitely hurt. "Ugh, I—" he began to groan, breaking off into a screech as he noticed a shrunken, ugly head mere inches away from his face. Its dead eyes stared into his very soul. Despite the throb of pain in his chest, he inhaled sharply, panicked, and scurried to sit upright, placing as much distance as he could between him and the disgustingly grotesque head. He was right: this _was_ a murder hut, and he'd just made enough noise to wake the population of the town. "Please be abandoned, please be abandoned…"

He _really_ didn't want to meet whoever lived here, not after coming face-to-face with a shrunken head and apparently, Mabel had seen bones. That was enough to lead him to believe they shouldn't hang around — that was the equivalent of waiting to be brutally slaughtered by some madman.

Across the room, he glimpsed the outline of a moving door opening. “Mabel?” his voice was a hushed whisper as he searched the pool of blackness for the outline of his sister. “Mabel!” He could see the beginnings of a shadowy figure, but something felt off. Why wasn’t she talking…? Mabel was never one for few words.

Then it hit Dipper. The figure that approached him didn’t seem _human_ . Faintly he could make out the shape of the head, it was massive and a dull white, and almost looked _bony_.

Fear paralyzed him, but moments later his trembling hands searched desperately for the flashlight he'd pulled out of his backpack. Realizing it must have rolled somewhere, Dipper pawed around in the darkness and clicked on the light when he finally managed to locate it. The beam spotlighted the monstrosity looming over him, confirming his suspicions: it was a skull, the black holes of its eye sockets pumping an extra dose of terror-induced adrenaline throughout his body.

The light failed to impede the movements of the creature, and he brandished his flashlight in what he hoped appeared to be a semi-threatening manner, hands visibly shaking from his nerves. “Stay back, demon! I - I have a flashlight, and I’m not afraid to use it!”

Much to his relief, it seemed to have some effect on the monster. It stopped its approach, raising its arms to… remove its head? For a fleeting second, Dipper was baffled—what _was_ this monster?—until he heard the sound of Mabel’s laughter.

“Hahaha, I can’t believe you fell for that!”

Disbelief sparked in him, and he gasped, “ _Mabel?_ That was _you_?” It sunk in, and he buried his face in his hands, embarrassment and annoyance prickling at him. "I can't believe you. This is serious!"

“Yeah, this was _seriously_ funny!”

He tried to stand to brush himself off, but a twinge of pain kept him seated. "And I think I'm hurt." Falling through a window clumsily might do that to a person.

Mabel made a tsking noise. “Maybe you shouldn’t have flopped through the window like a fish out of water.”

"Not the time," he wheezed. "We have to get out of here." A bit easier said than done with his body in the state that it was, but tripping and hurting himself was far less severe than the evils within this cabin — what normal person had an incredibly large animal skull lying around, and a shrunken head? Who knew what other gruesome oddities were hidden from view?

* * *

Awoken by a loud _CRASH_ and a not-so-masculine scream, Stan’s immediate reaction was to grab his bat. There weren’t many things in the sleepy town of Gravity Falls that’d make such a racket at this hour, and he was prepared for anything from a rampaging Bigfoot to dumbass police officers goofing around. And he swore, if it was those damn troublemaking friends of Wendy's...

Leaving his bedroom behind as he headed down the hall toward the living room where he believed the ruckus originated, he could faintly hear the sound of a girl speaking. The closer he got, the more the voice seemed to be coming from the gift shop. It seemed they had a filthy, no-good thief afoot, eh? He’d teach them to steal from the Mystery Shack! Old Batsy would put them in their place – and that place was a bloodied pulp on the floor! Soos could scrape up the intruder with the spatulas tomorrow.

As he neared the gift shop, he could even make out a small portion of the discussion. Was there more than one? Fantastic! Another people pulp for Soos to scoop!

“Why are you–”

Without missing a beat, he threw open the door that led to the gift shop and stalked inside, his baseball bat raised in preparation for a good ol’ whacking. At a glance, there seemed to be two intruders – a male and female teenager, and he didn’t recognize them as part of Wendy’s Crew. Or as residents of Gravity Falls, for that matter.

Flipping on the light switch to flood the Mystery Shack's gift shop with brightness and get a better look at the intruders, he noticed the male teenager was visibly intimidated by his bulky, muscular form—but really, who wouldn't be, Stan thought with a touch of arrogance—from the way he gulped and his teeth worried his bottom lip.

More importantly, his attention was captured by the damage done to his property. His display case was ruined, shards of glass and pieces of wood scattered on his floor, and the dinosaur skull from the living room was sitting near the wreckage. What the hell did these children do? They looked a little old to be playing T-Rex.

Even if his ultra-nerdy twin brother Ford might disagree.

Stan watched as the kid's eyes flicked between the shrunken head and the skull, and the male scrambled to step protectively in front of the other one—appearing to be in mild pain while doing so. In what Stan thought was an attempt to be threatening, he puffed his chest and growled, "Stay back, you… you witch doctor!" It was said with the amount of confidence Stan would expect from a self-conscious pre-teen kid, and this one was obviously older than that. Slightly.

“ _Witch doctor_?" he barked. "You barge into _my_ house, break _my_ display case, and have the _nerve_ to call me a _witch doctor_?” Stan glowered at the boy. “If you weren’t some lousy kid, I’d have beat you over the head with my bat by now.”

Blinking rapidly, the intruder seemed to be at a loss for words, sputtering out nothing but incoherent sounds. Stan raised an eyebrow. "Come on, kid, what do you got to say for yourself?" It was a demand, his voice gruff.

"We'll leave! Just please don't hurt us!" was the squeaky response that he finally was able to drag from him, his hands wringing together with apprehension. "...And—and we're not _kids_ , we're teenagers."

That didn’t answer his question, and he smacked his bat into his open palm in impatience. “I asked what you had to say. You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what you were doing with my stuff, _kid!_ ” He made an effort to emphasis ‘kid’, as that seemed to agitate the lad.

"What do you _want_ from us?!" he asked, sounding exasperated and stressed, a hand raking through his damp, brunet hair. They were both dripping wet, explained easily by the ongoing downpour outside, but it wasn't so obvious why they had backpacks — he was at a loss with that one. "And I already told you, _we're teens!_ " The way he stole a glance at the window made Stan wonder if he was seriously going to make a run for it.

“I want to know why you broke into my house, ruined one of my display cases, and fucked with my skull!”

“I can explain the skull!” The girl piped in. “I made a scary costume out of it to mess with Dippy!” Dippy? His parents must’ve hated him. “Do you want to see it?”

"Mabel, shh!" he turned to face her, shaking his head to presumably encourage her to stay quiet. "This guy," his hand waved carelessly in Stan's direction, "is exactly the kind of kook I was referring to!"

“Who you callin’ a kook, kid?”

The kid whipped around to meet his gaze, and Stan could see he wasn't expecting to be called out on it. "Who do you think? You're… a wacko, man!" He shouted back as his arms flapped wildly, motioning to the array of gift shop items. "I mean, look at all this!"

“‘All ' _this_ ’ is called my job, kiddo. Something you wouldn’t know about, considering you look like you just came out of a pig pen.”

The irritation was written across his face at that, and Stan felt a pinch of satisfaction from how simple it was to get under his skin. "You don't know anything about us!" his voice cracked on the words, and Stan snickered loudly. His laughter only seemed to agitate the kid further, leading him to let out a frustrated noise. Maybe Stan would've felt bad for him if his childishness wasn't so funny.

“You’re intruding on and vandalized my property. That’s all I need to know, kiddo. Now tell me what the hell you’re doing before I use my bat and beat it out of you anyway!”

Dippy—apparently—reached for Mabel (was it?) and grabbed her wrist. "We don't have time for this, let's just go."

“No, Dipper – he never said if he wanted to see my costume!” Mabel yanked her wrist out of Dippy ... Dipper’s … whatever the hell his name was’ grip, and she ran over to where the skull was on the floor.

Stan watched in amusement as she placed the skull over her head. “I used this to scare him when the lights were off,” the girl excitedly said. “He almost had a panic attack!”

"You just surprised me! I wasn't scared," Dipper protested hotly, blushing and folding his arms in defense. "I don't see why this is even important right now."

Stan let out a deep laugh, “That’s great!” He knew he shouldn't indulge a home invader, but how could he not approve of the Dippy one being spooked? The boy was being difficult. Maybe they could scare the answer out of him…

The familiar noise of the vending machine redirected his attention to the hidden entrance of the basement; the machine moving aside to reveal his brother, still dressed in his standard laboratory attire. Ford appeared mildly startled after a cursory examination of the room. Stan could almost hear his mind whirring away, surely trying to make sense of what he was witnessing — it wasn't everyday that he emerged from his hidey-hole in the middle of the night to see two unfamiliar faces, both intruders, one of which sporting the huge skull. He looked puzzled and hesitant, as if mentally toying with the possibility of turning on his heels and scurrying back downstairs without a word. A clearing of his throat and an adjustment of his glasses later, Ford averted his gaze. "How… how long have I been down there?"

“Let’s see…” Stan looked at Dippy (or whatever his name was.) “You’re still a kid, I’d say twelve given how difficult you’ve decided to be, and since it takes around nine months for children to pop out … thirteen years?”

Stan stole a sideways glance at Ford. He looked utterly lost, but his eyebrows were furrowed together in deep contemplation. "Ah, I don't understand.. Stan, what is going on?" A pause as he seemed to fully take in the intruding teens. "Who are they, and… why is my dinosaur skull—?" It was a strange albeit refreshing change of pace for his genius brother to be thoroughly stumped, rendered unable to even suitably use words.

A haughty cough came from Dipper, his eyes on Stan. "We're _fifteen_. What are you, twenty?"

“These two _hooligans_ broke into our house and wrecked one of our displays. Your skull was just used for a costume.” Stan couldn’t give less of a fuck about the skull. It wasn’t damaged like his display case. That costed three, no – three _hundred_ dollars, and he’d be damned if the kids didn’t replace it. “I’m twenty-four, kiddo. You can say you’re fifteen all you want, but all you’ve done is act like a pre-teen and fuck up my shit.”

" _Language_ — and how many times do I have to ask you to refrain from terrorizing children?" Ford pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing for a second. When he opened them again, Stan could identify the uncertainty lingering there. "But that is rather… concerning. Would you like me to phone the police?"

" _We're not children!"_ Dipper seemed to lose his restraint, but quickly recollected it. "Please don't call the cops, we'll leave. I already said we'd leave, but this guy wouldn't let us go!"

Stan shook his head. “Stop saying you’re not a child, Dippy. You’ve been acting immature this entire time, fucking around my house and refusing to even explain yourself. You’re not going _anywhere_ until you tell my why you broke into my home, and if you don’t start talking in the next thirty seconds, I _will_ have Poindexter here phone the cops while I beat the ever-living shit out of you!”

Ford snapped, "Stanley!" Stan already knew what he'd done wrong, but he didn't want to hear about it. Ford could bitch and moan about his colorful language all he wanted; as far as he was concerned, a home invasion was the perfect time to swear like a sailor and make brutal threats.

"My name is _Dipper_! We were just looking for shelter from the rain, okay? And… I may have sort of," the kid looked guilty, rubbing his elbow awkwardly as his pupils shifted, "fallen in."

Stan furrowed his eyebrows. “What, are you two on the run from somethin’? You piss off the pigs?” Dipper's eyes grew as large as saucers, but shook his head.

"Not everyone has a criminal history," was the mutter from Ford.

“Ya sure about that, Sixer? Two out of two of us does! Ain't you supposed to be the smart one, statistics an' all?”

If his attention wasn't solely on Ford, he would've taken great amusement and pleasure in the sudden panic that crossed Dipper's face at the revelation that he was trapped in a room with two self-identified criminals. Instead, all he witnessed was Ford's eyes narrowing at him. A pretentious hmmph. "Yes, well, that was _because_ of you."

“It doesn’t matter who’s at fault, Brainiac. It’s still in your name!” Stan had no shame. It wasn’t _his_ fault he just so happened to have Ford’s license on hand when he got pulled over...

Ford gave another little huff, "We are not having this discussion right now."

“Anyway,” Stan returned to their previous conversation. “How’d you fall in? You have arms, don’tcha? They look a bit noodly but I wouldn’t have thought them weaker than a newborn kitten’s.”

"I don't know! I thought Mabel was in trouble and… I was trying to get to her."

“Falling through a window isn’t the most efficient way to get to your girlfriend.” The sudden, matching expressions of equal disgust and horror suggested he'd made a mistake in his assumption.

“Ew! Ew! Ew! No, we’re siblings! He’s my brother!” The girl spoke up once more, finally taking off the skull. He was surprised she kept it on so long – from experience, he knew it wasn’t easy to talk in.

"Twins, actually," Dipper supplied.

He didn’t understand why they seemed so repulsed by the thought of dating a sibling, but whatever. Maybe they were closeted. “Alright twinsies,” Stan began. “Since you broke my display, you won’t be leaving until you’ve replaced it. I’m–”

Dipper cut in, "You can't keep us here, that's kidnapping."

“Have it your way," he replied easily, looking to his own twin. "Ford, get the cops.” How he saw it, they could either stay here or with those lunatic cops in the courthouse.

"Wait!" he squeaked, the panic dripping from his exclamation. "We'll stay."

“That’s what I thought.” Stan reached out to pat Dipper’s head. “I’m a fair guy, Dippy, so here’s what we’ll do. You’re going to go to bed – it’s late, we’re all tired. There’s a couple beds upstairs in the attic you can use. Be up by 8 o’clock sharp in the morning and we’ll discuss things during breakfast. Ya got that?”

With a glance to Mabel for confirmation, Dipper nodded. "Got it," he awkwardly trailed off, staring at Stan, "uh.. Stan, is it?"

“Yeah, it’s Stan. Mr. Pines if you’re feelin’ fancy, or Stanley if you wanna be stuck-up like Poindexter here." He jabbed a thumb at Ford. "Now get to bed you two. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.”

* * *

After the teenagers—Mabel and Dipper, Ford supposed—disappeared upstairs to go to bed, he had retreated into the basement laboratory where he informed his assistant-slash-boyfriend, Fiddleford, of everything that'd happened. He'd been just as perplexed by the sequence of events that'd befallen the Mystery Shack this evening.

Ford still didn't know what to make of it, but he wasn't personally in favor of housing them. Certainly, they were probably decent individuals, but did they have a place here? Especially after _breaking in_?

He had to speak with Stan about this, not that he had the slightest illusion he would get anywhere with his stubbornness, since it would be nothing short of a miracle if they didn't part in anger after the discussion.

Returning upstairs, he noticed the gift shop's door was ajar and approached, stepping onto the porch to be met with the sight of Stan lounging comfortably, cigarette hanging from his lips. It was no shock to Ford to find him there, and besides, he could admit it was a nice evening. The usually-hot weather of June was cooler with the storms that were passing through.

Joining him on the couch, Ford sat down beside his brother, leaving a fair bit of space between them. A sigh tumbled from him as he raised his head to the stars, noting how vibrant they appeared this evening even through the rainy haze. There was a sweet scent lingering in the air, but it was soon replaced by the stench of cigarette smoke, causing Ford's nose to wrinkle in distaste. "Do you really have to do that? Smoking is a horrendous health hazard."

“What?” Stan exhaled a cloud of smoke. “It’s good for the stress. What’re you doing out here anyway, Sixer? I figured you’d be holed up in the basement, with your ... gadgets n’ stuff.”

His eyebrows raised, all twelve fingers drumming gently against his slacks. "Is it too difficult for you to believe I've simply come to enjoy your company?"

“Yeah. You go to Diddleford if you wanna enjoy someone’s company. And you give him the kisses. Whatever happened to giving those to me?”

Oh.

So Stan was in one of _those_ moods this evening, and Ford wondered how adamant his brother was going to be about it, whether or not he should simply go back inside now to avoid wasting both of their time… No, he could handle this with patience and grace.

"Fiddleford," he corrected exhaustedly, but didn't know why he bothered. Stan knew his name, or at least he _should_ know since they'd been a group of friends since childhood. Throat tightening, he merely shook his head, unwilling to talk about _that_ when they had two strangers taking up residence in the Mystery Shack. The newcomers were the larger concern, in Ford's opinion.

“Tickleford, whatever. Close enough. You still go to him over me. You only go to me when you want something.”

"How foolish of me," Ford said dryly, wanting to roll his eyes at Stan's antics. "Stan, would _you_ like to assist me in building a quantum destabilizer gun?"

“Sounds hot. When can I start?”

"After you've completed eight years of collegiate-level work in a relevant field."

“Ehh, I’ll just stick to my street smarts. You’ll be thankful for them one day, Sixer.”

Sensing this was his opportunity to talk about the real subject at hand, Ford asked, "And is it your _street smarts_ that lead you to believe letting two home invaders stay here was a good idea?"

“What, you jealous they’ll be taking your job?”

"Heavens, no," he scoffed, classifying the mere thought as absurd. He didn't miss his temporary position at the Mystery Shack and was glad to be conducting his research full-time. "If anything, I pity them — considering they'll have to work for you."

“They’ll be grateful they’re working for me,” Stan responded. “It’s me or the cops, and I’ll at least provide them with Stancakes.”

He made a face, shuddering. Stan's cooking was low on the list of things he missed, as he never could get over the scraggly hairs sticking out every-which-way. It had been repulsive. "Feeding them Stancakes is borderline cruel and unusual punishment. They might call the cops on themselves." While he said it seriously, it had a hint of playfulness; he never had been great at indicating he was joking.

Stan shook his head. “You’re insulting my cookin’ now, Poindexter? I should kick ya to the curb and let the nerdy kid take over the basement.”

Was he referring to… Dippy? Dipper? That one had appeared to be on the _nerdy_ side, as Stan put it. Knowing Stan was far from serious in his threat, Ford couldn't help but smile a little, crookedly. "Just make sure he remembers to feed Fiddleford three times per day." Or he'd have one grouchy assistant on his hands.

All amusement drained from Stan’s face. “You know Fuckleford is only here because of you. Otherwise, I wouldn’t let him hang around my house.”

"Is Fiddleford not home-invader-y," he wanted to cringe at his own phrasing, "enough for you?"

“He’s too brother-invadery for me. Your ass used to be mine, Sixer, before you ran off to college and got all … _gay_ with him.”

That caught him by surprise and Ford choked, a furious blush spreading over his cheeks. He hadn't expected their banter to turn so quickly, but he hoped he could steer their conversation back into the right direction while preventing the current topic from continuing. His love life—nor his… body parts—had nothing to do with this, and Stan's wishful thinking was no more than that, a fantasy that his brother entertained for some reason. Their previous _relations_ , he supposed was the most appropriate term, had ended long ago during their teenage years.

" _Stanley_. That… that's—" he fidgeted to adjust his glasses, and settled on, "...irrelevant. We need to talk about those children."

“It’s not irrelevant, Sixer!” Stan shuffled close to him, flicking his cigarette into the grass, and demolishing the space Ford had initially set between them on the couch.  “Come on, you can’t say you don’t miss the good ol’ days when we were fucking in the back of pa’s car.”

Muscles going stiff at the contact and gaze darting, he wasn't sure his face could get any hotter but was searching for an escape. He didn't want this, not any of it — Stan was uncomfortably close, uncomfortably brazen. "You're insufferable."

“You’re stuffable.”

Eyes going wide, Ford squeaked at the more-than-suggestive implication. He willed his mind to stop spinning one million miles per minute, it was already hard enough to focus when Stan was being like… this. They'd had this discussion many times over, too many times, and he didn't know what his brother was hoping to gain from it. Squirming to put more distance between them again, he ended up feeling squeezed, wedged between the armrest and Stan while leaning comically away from him. Most of his upper body was draped awkwardly over the armrest. "Could we return to the more pressing matter?" he asked, impatience leaking into his voice.

Stan shuffled back into his original spot, restoring some of the space between them. “You mean the kids? What about ‘em?”

Why Stan didn't comprehend the glaring problem was a mystery to him. "We don't _know_ them. They shouldn't be working at the Shack, much less living in it!" He fell quiet for a second, lips twisting into a bitter smile that lacked humor. "But it _is_ fitting, I suppose, having criminals working for a criminal." If tonight was an indication, they were probably on the same level, morally, as Stan was.

“Ford,” the voice of his brother had a slight edge to it. “This is my house. I make the rules, and I say these kids _will_ be staying here and lending a hand, at least until they pay off the damage. You should just be thankful I let your sex buddy stay here too.”

"I'll have you know our relationship is strictly professional, with the tiniest hint of romance." But now that he gave it some thought, he couldn't recall the last time he'd done anything remotely romantic with Fiddleford. Oh well, that was unimportant at the moment.

And Ford didn't have to be told it was _technically_ Stan's house to do with as he pleased, but that was because he'd been on the run from the law basically ever since he'd been kicked out by their father. It was by a random stroke of luck that Stan managed to grab this land for dirt cheap. But he didn't appreciate Stan attempting to throw that in his face as some sort of power move, essentially threatening Fiddleford's residency as well. "Forgive me if I'm skeptical about your choice of housemates," he said coldly. A host of bad memories resurfaced as he recalled one particular guest...

Stan laughed as he pulled out another cigarette from the case and lit it, “Are you still pouting over Bill? I love that kid. It’s not his fault you left your sciency garbage lying where he could get it. Think of it like this: if you didn’t want it to be destroyed, ya shouldn’t have left it lying around.” He brought the cigarette to his lips. "Pretty dumb move to be so careless with your shit, Sixer. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one."

Inhaling sharply, he felt a pinch of offense at how Stan referred to his belongings. Sciency _garbage_ — why couldn't he at least _attempt_ to be respectful? He didn't go around calling the Mystery Shack's souvenirs trashy or fake or fraudulent, but that was exactly what they were. A waste of space and money, and dancing on the edge of insulting to his career. Shaking the thought away, Ford's jaw set as he considered Bill. The same Bill who had lived with them for a while and acted atrociously. "He not only intentionally destroyed my belongings and projects, but he's _stolen_ from me without showing a single shred of remorse." The disappearances of the memory gun's prototype and human anatomy textbook were not accidents, and that wasn't even topping the list of monstrously evil things Bill had done while staying here.

He didn't miss Bill's presence in the Shack at all, and he was glad his visits were contained to the times he and Stan went drinking or street racing together. Both were activities he disapproved of, but it was better than living with that delinquent.

Stan glanced at him, breathing out a cloud of smoke. “Look, I know you don’t like it when people _borrow_ your stuff, but if you ever bothered to ask for it back he’d be happy to oblige. I don’t understand what all this fuss is about. The guy’s a real gas to hang with – it’s not either of our faults you just happened to dislike him with a passion.”

" _Borrow_ my stuff?" he questioned, contempt flickering within him. "Did you _borrow_ my perpetual motion machine?" Stan and Bill had both destroyed projects incredibly dear to him with days of work and thought poured into them, going entirely down the drain due to their carelessness.

“ _That_ was an accident, Stanford.” Stan's tone matched his in bitterness.

It'd been seven years, but he figured some part of him would always be upset about that because Stan's _accident_ (ha, Ford thought) costed him his dream school. A potential future that now would never come to fruition thanks to Stan. "But it remains my dislike of Bill is entirely justified, and I wish you would take it upon yourself to surround yourselves with friends that won't inevitably land themselves in jail."

“Jail ain’t so bad. You should give it a try sometime, Sixer.”

Ford let out a heavy sigh. "I imagine that if I continue to associate with you, that's exactly where I'll end up."

“We can try an experiment,” Stan offered. “Find out what happens when Stanford Pines drops the soap around Stanley Pines.”

"Excuse me?" He had the faintest suspicion he knew what that meant, but...

“We’ll have some raunchy sex, Poindexter.”

And there it was. A strained noise escaped him, and he was back to blushing. Even the tips of his ears felt hot. It wasn't a result of any arousal, but a reaction to the discussion of sex and sexuality, amplified when that was referring to sex with _him_. "I… I hypothesize that won't go over well."

“It’s the lack of lube, isn’t it?”

Clearing his throat, Ford rose to his feet and said, "Goodnight, Stan." He'd had enough of Stan's incessant flirting and sexual passes at him, as it'd been more than plenty for one evening, perhaps for one lifetime, and he didn't know how else to convey to Stan that he was with Fiddleford. The fact that he was already in a relationship didn't seem to be sinking into his brother's thick skull, or maybe he simply didn't care — the latter was extremely probable, considering it was Stanley.

“Wait a second,” Stan was quick to speak, bringing Ford to a pause near the screen door. He looked at him expectantly, head cocked to the side with curiosity. “You remember how those kids got all flustered when I told Dippy falling through the window wasn’t the best way to get to his girlfriend? I wanted to follow that up by saying if they were into each other, they wouldn’t be judged here. As, you know, siblings that’re together. In the sexy way.” Stan gave him a suggestive eyebrow wiggle.

"While I commend your rationality," since judgment from Stan would be calling the kettle black under these circumstances, "I don't believe you should be encouraging further illegal activities." They'd already broken into the Shack. "Isn't one crime enough for tonight?"

“Did I steal your heart?”

"Goodness, no. I have standards, a concept I presume you would know nothing about," Ford retorted tiredly, wishing his brother wouldn't be so obtuse or persistent about this. He didn't have feelings for Stan, not… the romantic sort, not the kind Stan wanted him to have. " _Goodnight_ , Stan."

“Ah, I always knew you had **stan** dards. Dream of me, Sixer. I’m much more good looking than Dingleford.” The sole response he received was the sound of the screen door slamming behind Ford.

* * *

Upstairs, the twins had found their attic room and were beginning to lightly unpack. Said unpacking was tentative in Dipper’s case, at least. Mabel had already taken all the clothes from her bag and hung up some in their closet space, making herself thoroughly at home when they'd been here a grand total of about an hour. By the time she was done, he was sure there’d be room for nothing else with how much she insisted on bringing.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be so quick to unpack everything,” he suggested to her. “We’re not planning on staying here for long, are we? Just until we pay off that display case?” He took comfort in sticking to the original plan of reaching a bigger city, since it would decrease their chances of being recognized by anybody. In small towns, as it seemed Gravity Falls was, everybody knew everyone else and could lead to them being dragged back to their negligent parents.

“I dunno,” Mabel said. “I like it here!”

“We’ve been here for like, an hour. How could you possibly like it? I mean, there's Stan and he calls me _Dippy—"_

"You called him a witch doctor." Mabel reminded him with a giggle.

" _—_ and he threatened to turn us over to the cops! Multiple times!” And honestly, Dipper was a little afraid of Stan because he was a hulking bundle of sheer muscle, and had a hardened look about him, like he could completely disassemble Dipper with a single, well-aimed punch.

The other one was less intimidating, not as bulky or broad-framed — Poindexter? Sixer? Ford? How many names could a person have? Probably aliases to commit crimes under, if Stan had been speaking seriously about that… But unlike Stan, he didn't appear to have the capacity to rip him seam from seam and then chew on the remains.

“Besides, you’re very Dippy-like,” she pointed out, completely ignoring his previous statement. “I’m surprised someone hasn’t tried you with chips, especially when all those old ladies watched you do the Lamby-Lamby dance.”

"You swore you wouldn't bring that up again!"

“You didn’t make me pinky swear!”

"Just… don't mention it to anybody, okay?" Dipper begged, a shade of red creeping onto his face. The Lamby-Lamby dance was so very _embarrassing_ and the less people knew of it, the better.

“Only if you agree my idea was better than camping out in those nasty woods tonight.”

He began to protest, "If you would've given it a chance, I'm sure we could've had a viable fortress—"

“We would have been freezing in a storm!”

Dipper swallowed a sigh, letting her have this. It was true they _did_ have shelter for the night and beyond, even if the other residents were questionable at best. "Your idea was better," he agreed sincerely, conceding, "but I want my jacket back."

“Fineee,” Mabel shouldered the damp, muddied jacket off, and she tossed it to him.

Catching the garment and holding it out, he grimaced as he noticed the excessive grime coating the fabric, "What did you do? Go _scuba diving_ in the mud?" His pants were muddy near the bottoms, but nothing like this.

“You watched me jump around in the puddles! What did you expect?”

He didn't reply right away, feeling drained from the day's events and now this, he was ready to collapse. "We can deal with it tomorrow." He stripped down to an undershirt and boxers in preparation for sleep, flopping onto one of the beds with a groan as the movement disturbed his injury.

Relaxing, he seized the opportunity to truly take in the bedroom Stan assigned to them. There were a few boxes laying around with miscellaneous, dusty and seemingly forgotten items in them, an array of books, and a large, framed painting of a sailboat hanging on the wall. The structural beams supported a pointed ceiling, and the only window—situated between his and Mabel's beds—was a triangular shape with an oval inside. Other than that, it was a standard room, almost too mundane to belong to a couple of criminals. It contained some furniture, shelves, nightstands, a lamp, a soft overhead light encased by a stained glass bowl, but the room still appeared to be generally untouched. More like a storage area, if Dipper had to guess.

Mabel sank into the other bed sometime after changing into a cleaner set of clothes, burrowing under the blankets. “Do you think we’ll ever catch a car ride to the city?”

He hoped so, but he wasn't sure. The lack of success in his original plan was depressing, but he thought aloud, "We could always pay off our debt to Stan, and ask him for a ride." That was a stretch, but if the road was as severely underused as it seemed to be, their options were limited.

“You think he’d do that for us?” She asked.

"I wouldn't write it off so quickly," Dipper replied, turning his head to cast a slight smile in her direction. "He seemed to take a liking to that skull costume thing you were doing."

Mabel brightened up. “I can bring the skull with on the car trip! He’d love it!”  She seemed to think for a moment. "...But would you even _want_ to get a ride with a potential criminal?”

Although Dipper wasn't overly fond of the idea, he wasn't going to reject the minimal help they might be able to get. He reminded her, "We broke into his house, Mabel. That makes us criminals, too." He preferred to think they had a good reason for doing so and weren't among the likes of common criminals, but really there was little difference in the end.

“Nah,” she disagreed with an air of dismissiveness, grinning. “We’re not criminals, we’re opportunists.”

"You do realize that sounds like something a criminal would say," he pointed out.

“Nooo, it’s something an _opportunist_ would say!”

Dipper's smile widened, and he gave a soft laugh at her reply. Mabel always knew how to cheer him up, and he was thankful to have such a wonderful sister.

Mabel yawned. “We should sleep, _Dippy_.”

"Stop that," he muttered, but wasn't truly annoyed by the nickname. Yawning as well, he shifted his weight to find a comfortable position on the mattress. "But we should. Stan did say we'd have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

“Goodnight, Dipper.”

"Sleep well, Mabel."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're trying to settle into a schedule of weekly updates on Fridays and the description of the fic has updated to reflect this. Thanks to all who have shown some love with kudos and/or comments — we're always thrilled to hear from you, so don't be shy. Enjoy the second chapter of merry misadventures!

It was six in the morning when Dipper first woke up, the unfamiliar sound of a goat bleating outside startling the young teen into consciousness. For a fleeting second, panic raced through him as he didn't immediately remember where he was or why he was opening his eyes to see a strange bedroom, but memories of last night mollified his increasing confusion as they came flooding back.

He allowed himself to collapse into the mattress once more, yet sleep was impossibly unobtainable with his heart still racing from the scare. Dipper's mind was whirring, rehashing the previous day's events, and ignoring his attempts to put aside his thoughts in favor of gaining another hour or two of rest. To make matters worse, his chest and forehead ached from his injuries, and he couldn't believe he'd been so stupid, clumsy enough to slam into a tree and flop through a window all in one evening.

Glancing to Mabel's sleeping form, he wondered how she was handling this. He wasn't too worried since she was the most resilient person he'd ever met, and he never understood how she found a way to smile at everything, spinning even the worst of outcomes into a positive statement. She'd seemed chipper, and honestly, he was a pinch jealous that she and Stan had instantly hit it off. Mabel's natural charisma was undeniable when she formed connections and new friendships wherever she went, and Dipper wished he could be as likeable to people. While his sister could hold a conversation with a rock and end it as best friends, his own socialization skills were lacking in comparison.

He abandoned that train of thought and closed his eyes in an attempt to sleep, but it wasn't long before he was forced to come to terms with his inability to drift off again. Deciding he might as well do something productive rather than lie in bed all morning waiting for eight o'clock, the time he'd have to meet Stan, he rose to his feet to wince as he did so, reminded of how hard he'd fallen yesterday when his ribcage ached with soreness and protested against every movement. Hopefully, working for Stan wouldn't be too rigorous since just picking up a fresh set of clothing and getting to the door of the bedroom was enough of a challenge.

Luckily, he was able to find the bathroom after a few failed attempts and relished in the feeling of warm water pouring over his skin, clearing away the muddy remnants of their journey through the woods of Gravity Falls. Having access to a shower alone was enough to push him over the line of uncertainty and thoroughly convince him staying here was a better idea than making a shelter in the woods, and sleeping under a structurally-sound roof on an actual mattress wasn't bad either.

Curiosity pricked at him as he finished showering. Just how bad  _were_ his injuries? One glance in the mirror at his chest illustrated why he felt such discomfort — there was a large bruise, surrounded by a couple smaller ones, all of them blue and purple and angry-looking. On his forehead, barely below his birthmark, was another discolored and swollen welt from when he'd collided with the tree.

He returned to the bedroom and was glad to see Mabel still snoozing, undisturbed. They'd had a draining day yesterday, and he hoped she was able to get plenty of rest — but regardless, he assumed she'd wake up as energetic as ever, probably ready to get started at their new job.

The nightstand clock showed that it was just past 6:30. Although Dipper took pride in his punctuality, getting there over an hour before eight would be overkill. So in the meantime, Dipper was content to snatch a red book from one of the boxes and sprawl out on his bed as he prepared to read for a while, eyebrows furrowing when he realized the title was  _Why Am I Sweaty?_  His expression shifting into something of horrified disgust, and he was quick to toss it back into the box he'd found it. Dipper had already underwent puberty, and he didn't need or want to relieve his younger years in which puberty had made him even more of an awkward mess of a human.

Once more getting up to find a different novel from the box, he was careful to avoid grabbing the book of nightmare fuel. Fortune seemed to be on his side this time, but there was no title across the front of the new red book. When he opened it, there were no words. Even more perplexed, he flipped through it, all the pages turning up blank.

But that gave him an idea, and he grasped a stray pen from the nightstand, hand positioned over the opened book as he considered what to write about. Ever since he and Mabel had ran away from their parents in Piedmont in search of a better life (i.e. yesterday), their adventure had been a series of twists and turns and surprises, a toss up between good and bad — and he settled on that. That would be what he wrote about, he decided, and somehow using this as a journal seemed therapeutic. Calming, when everything they'd encountered thus far had exactly the opposite effect on him. 

* * *

Taking Stan's instructions to heart, Dipper was downstairs and seated at the table with Mabel, who he eventually had to drag out of bed, in the kitchen seven minutes early, the clock on the wall reading 7:53 A.M. He looked around, wondering if he should feel unsettled by the sorry state the room was in. It obviously hadn't endured a proper cleaning in months since there were dirty pots and pans and dishes everywhere, stacked carelessly on the counters and stove top. If the intense amount of grime and old food didn't have him feeling disgusted already, the taxidermied wolf head tossed atop the refrigerator would've done the trick.

Stealing a glance back at the clock, he wrung his hands together, rocking back and forth in his seat. "Okay," he said, a small albeit anxious laugh escaping him, "it's five minutes until eight." There was no sign of Stan, but the clock ticked on.

"This is taking  _forever_ ," whined Mabel as she leaned back in her chair, her feet plopping on the table. "When do we get to eat? I'm hungry!"

Nerves getting the best of him, Dipper mulled over the possibilities instead of replying to Mabel. "Do you think Stan meant  _this_ table? What if he was referring to some other table?" The Mystery Shack had proven somewhat difficult to navigate because of its odd and confusing layout, but they'd managed to find their way through it without getting lost so far. They'd successfully located their new bedroom last night, Dipper had found the bathroom earlier this morning, and now they were in the kitchen. Besides, they knew where the living room and gift shop were from experience. Nevertheless, it was true to its name and boasted mysterious, puzzling architecture.

"What other table would it be?"

"This place is huge, Mabel! There are so many doors, rooms, and corridors… there could be a table anywhere. There's even one in the living room." While there were many rooms left unexplored, Dipper wasn't about to go barging into them uninvited. Stan could just as easily kick them out as he'd allowed them in, and snooping around his house seemed morally questionable.

Mabel gave him a blank look. "Dipper, when he gets down here he'll probably be just as hungry as I am. Didn't he even say we'd talk over breakfast? This  _is_  the kitchen, isn't it?"

His sister had a point, and he nodded slowly. It was logical — if they were going to talk over breakfast, surely it would be in the kitchen even if the place was completely filthy, hardly resembling a kitchen anymore. His fingers were itching to tidy it up, but he didn't want to be rude. "But then where  _is_ he? It's…" he stole a glimpse at the clock, "three minutes to eight! He said to be here at eight o'clock  _sharp_ , remember?"

"Maybe all the muscle he has came to life and gobbled him up in his sleep," Mabel offered.

Although he otherwise may have chuckled, he really did not need to be reminded that Stan had more muscle than the both of them combined. Broad, sturdy shoulders, thickened biceps… Dipper was certain he could crush them with his bare hands if he desired. Shaking the thought away, he wasn't sure if what he said was in response to Mabel or his own worries. "That clearly would never happen."

"You say that now," she hummed, "but when he doesn't show up you'll see!"

That was a genuine concern: what if he didn't show up? What were they supposed to do? "I'm sure he's just… caught up in something," he offered lamely as he distracted himself with a new plan: if Stan didn't show, they were free to leave (probably) and could try hitching a ride at the main road again, though he wasn't looking forward to boring hours of standing there on the chance someone would be kind enough to help them. If it played out similarly to yesterday, they'd be left with defeat and no progress at the end of the day.

Mabel shuffled her feet on the table. "He might just be sleeping. Maybe getting some more 'z's has made him forget about us."

It was at least more realistic than the muscle-consuming-him theory, Dipper would give her credit for that. His eyes swept the room again, suppressing a shudder at the unkempt state and abundance of dirtied dishes. "I hope he doesn't expect us to actually eat anything he makes in here. This kitchen is a nightmare." He wasn't sure how Stan could make food in here with the clutter, let alone work up the courage to eat it.

"I like it! It gives the kitchen character." She removed her feet from the table, knocking a pile of dirty dishes and an empty can onto the floor in the process. Nothing shattered or broke, but the noise was atrocious.

He squawked, "You're making it worse!" Why Mabel had to have her feet on the table in the first place was lost on him because adding to the mess wasn't something a responsible house guest should do.

"No I'm not! I'm adding  _character_  to it, Dipper. You should try."

"I don't want to give it  _character_ ," he said, tone replicating Mabel's. "I want to clean it up." Or at the very least remove the trash, such as the wrappers and empty cans, and relocate the dirty dishes into the sink. "Anything food-related that's prepared in here," or any edible substance that entered the room, "will probably give us a host of diseases."

"You're such a clean freak."

It was true he liked his belongings to be orderly rather than strewn about everywhere, but he wouldn't go far enough to say he was a clean freak, implying not one thing could be out of place without driving him wild. That wasn't Dipper. The simple fact of the matter was that the line had to be drawn somewhere, and Stan's kitchen was more than disgusting. "I'm not a clean freak. I just don't want to be ingesting the goop he ate last month with today's breakfast!" He couldn't imagine Stan had many usable plates remaining, considering how many were in plain sight, coated with leftover food and laying forgotten. "Look, it won't be a big deal…" he started, rising to his feet and advancing toward the sink and making a face at its sorry state as well. "I'll wash a couple of these," or more likely all of them and everything else in the room if he had sufficient time to do that, "and maybe Stan won't mind." Or take offense. He'd fought off the urge for too long and was giving in to this kitchen's silent pleas to be rescued from its trashy state.

As he started the warm water and added what he hoped was soap, Dipper glanced over his shoulder to the clock and report, "Alright, it's now officially two minutes and ten seconds past eight o'clock." A nervous chuckle tumbled from him, but he began to work on the gross dishes, scrubbing them while an expression of disgust was gradually forming on his face at the sheer amount of grunge covering all of the kitchenware. Some of it was even molding, evidence they hadn't been washed in several days. Months, likely. He was comforted by the idea that if Stan didn't want him to clean the kitchen, he should have been here on time and this never would've happened.

Mabel shook her head at him as he moved more dishes toward the sink. "Dipper! What if some of the gross food goop comes to life and grabs you?"

"Jeez, Mabel, you're acting more ridiculous than normal. I think the fumes," the horrendous stench of rotting and burnt food, "in this room are getting to you." Mabel's warning was silliness, he told himself. Food goop, while thoroughly revolting and made him want to gag, wouldn't come to life and grab him, would it?

He could hear her laugh behind him. "The only thing getting to me about this room is the lack of breakfast. I wish he'd come already."

So did Dipper, but he had a new mission on his hands.

Snatching another set of dirty plates and silverware to dump into the sink, Dipper paused to thoroughly examine the remnants of the food and determined that no, this goop wasn't about to attack him.

Caught in the mindless motion of grabbing plates, pots, pans, and various utensils, then washing them, he was spacing out, oblivious to the clanking of Mabel kicking around cans—only halfway through his self-assigned task of cleaning the kitchen—when he heard the sound of a door. It snapped him from his daze, and he peered questioningly to Mabel, "Do you think that's Stan coming to talk to us?" It was now 8:16 so while not quite on time, he wasn't overly late either.

Her eyes were fixed on the entrance to the kitchen. "It'd better be!"

Following her line of sight, Dipper was surprised to see not Stan, but someone he didn't recognize come waltzing into the house like he owned the place, pausing in the foyer to call up the stairs, "Mr. Pines, I'm here! Soos reporting for duty!" He—Soos, maybe Zeus?—was tall and rather plump, pear-shaped. Dipper's attention was drawn to the faded olive-green shirt with a large question mark scrawled across the front, wondering if the design was tied to the Mystery Shack's branding.

A brown hat was perched on his head, and when he turned in their direction, Dipper could determine he wasn't much younger than Stan. He had big, kind eyes with a child-like innocence persisting in them, and a couple stray facial hairs clung to his tanned, fair skin.

Seemingly noticing the disturbance in his usual routine, a look of pure confusion washed over him as he stared at the twins. "You dudes aren't Mr. Pines."

"Nope! I'm Mabel, and this guy," she motioned to him with a grin, "is my brother Dipper!"

Dipper was equally baffled by what he'd just been a witness to, but given what he'd said, the casualness about him, and the word 'STAFF' plastered on his shirt, he inferred this was another employee of the Mystery Shack. "Hey man, uh… how did you get in here?" he asked because it seemed like he merely opened the door and strolled in as if it was nothing out of the ordinary, despite Stan's lack of presence. Sure, he'd announced he was here, but that was still barging in.

Dipper's inquiry appeared to stump the poor guy for several long seconds, but he smiled and let out a warm chuckle. "I guess you must be new around Gravity Falls," he said, eyes averting as he removed his hat to fiddle with it in his hands idly. "Nobody locks their doors here. It's just not something we do in this town, y'know?" Another short laugh.

The idea of leaving doors unlocked, especially at all times, without a second thought was a foreign concept to Dipper, and this new information underlined just how small this place had to be if everyone was unconcerned about intruders.

It also annoyed Dipper as he remembered last night, realizing that sneaking in through a window (or, in his case, falling through it) was completely unnecessary since they could've entered via the front door. It would have been a much less painful or noisy endeavor, and wouldn't have ended with sensitive blue and purple splotches on his body.

Interestingly, it could have left him and Mabel without jobs too since there'd be no debt to pay off to Stan.

"So wait…" Mabel began to speak. "You mean we can walk into anyone's house in Groovity Falls?"

"You got it, dude. Though I'm not sure I'd recommend it – some people wouldn't take very kindly to that!" That didn't sound reassuring to him, not that he planned on stepping into another stranger's house when one time was already too many, and embarking upon a breaking and entering streak didn't appeal to him.

"We are not doing that," Dipper said, aiming to leave no room for argument. They'd barely escaped a bat-beating a la Stan last night, and he figured that was one of the least painful things that could happen to them if they continued this habit of home invasion.

"Aw," was Mabel's noise of protest. "But what if they have cool things like the skull? We could dress up together!"

Soos shuffled with discomfort near the threshold, his eyes watching them as they bickered. He looked uncertain, debating between cutting into their squabble or moving on, but ultimately just stood there awkwardly.

"Aren't we a little… old for that?" He vividly recalled the conversation he'd had with Stan over age and maturity, and the last thing he needed was Stan still thinking he was a kid. He was a teenager.

"Not according to Stan! He thinks you're twelve!"

Exasperated, Dipper asked, "How would dressing up together help with that?"

"Don't be silly, dressing up  _always_ helps! You'll never make him think better of you with how squeaky you get!"

"Oh dudes," Soos quietly chuckled, "if there was more angry yelling involved this would remind me of my parents before my dad left."

Well, that got uncomfortable exceedingly fast, and suddenly, washing the dirty plates was far more intriguing than it had been a moment ago. He guessed he and Mabel weren't the only ones who had parental… complications negatively affecting them.

Attempting to come up with a new conversation topic to forget  _that_ ever happened and break out of the awkwardness that'd gripped the room, Dipper half-stated, half-questioned, "I'm guessing you work for Stan too." Having a shirt with 'STAFF' on the back heavily implied Soos (or was his name Zeus?) was an employee.

"Yup, sometimes I wish he was my dad. He sure takes care of me better than my real one did!"

"O-kay," he said slowly, not entirely sure what to do with that or why Soos thought it was appropriate to share. How long had they known this guy? A total of five minutes, and they were already divulging oddly personal desires? Besides, Stan couldn't have been more than five years older than him, unless Soos' physical appearance made him look older than he truly was. "But he's… like, your age." Maybe he should just finish washing the dishes and let Mabel handle the situation since her interest seemed to be piqued by the daddy issues Soos kept bringing up.

"Do you ever wish he was a time traveler?" She asked with wide eyes.

"All the time, little female dude!"

"If I'm the little female dude, does that make Dipper a little man dude?"

"You betcha!"

Placing the last dish into the pile of cleaned ones, he commented, "This is getting weird, you two."

"You're weird!" Mabel responded before he could go on.

Dipper sighed, glancing around to see if there was a handrag to dry himself on, but upon finding one, he realized just wiping his hands on his pants would be a lot more sanitary. "So, uh, ...Soos?" He hoped he was getting the guy's name right, or he feared further awkwardness would ensue. "Do you know where Stan is? He was supposed to be meeting us down here twenty-five minutes ago." The way Soos had let himself in suggested he was accustomed to Stan and the Shack, and perhaps he'd know where they could find him without tromping around the house haphazardly.

"Oh, he's probably in bed. Mr. Pines never gets up when he tells you to. It's rare to see him up before nine at all."

"That's where he's been this entire time?! Why did he tell us to be here at eight if he's not even awake?" he groaned in irritation, smacking a palm to his forehead but immediately retracting it with a series of "oww's" when a stab of pain reminded him of the bruise lingering there.

"I could have stayed in bed?!" Mabel scowled. While she exuded hyper-activity after getting up, dragging her out of bed was a constant challenge.

"It's just … how Mr. Pines is, y'know? I thought you'd already know this, since you're in here..." Soos gave him a concerned look as he saw Dipper's pained response. "You okay, little man dude?"

"I'm fine." Hoping to avoid having to supply an explanation, he didn't want to talk about how he'd dumbly walked into a  _tree_  yesterday, so Dipper returned to the subject by stating, "Stan just told us we were going to be his new employees. That's basically all we know about him." They knew he lived here, owned a bat that he enjoyed threatening people with, and had a criminal history. Along with Stan's name and age, that was the extent of the information they'd been given.

"You don't know anything else about Mr. Pines, huh?" Soos softly chuckled. "Dudes, if I didn't know better I'd say Mr. Pines fished you out of the storm last night."

That was an accurate summary of events in a way, but Stan hadn't gone looking for them even if he had been generous enough to give them a job opportunity. "I guess you wouldn't be wrong." It was easier to go with Soos' version than delve into the details of what really transpired. Maybe the part about them breaking in could be kept hushed, a secret shared between him, Mabel, and Stan since he didn't want to paint the wrong image of him and Mabel to this Soos character. They were two teenagers in trouble, not criminals.

"We broke in!" Mabel excitedly said.

And there went that plan. Dipper scrambled to correct the error, laughing nervously, "...to the souvenir business, she means! We broke into that, nothing else." And definitely not Stan's house.

"Uh… okay, dudes!" Soos looked lost, an expression he seemed to wear quite often Dipper noted. "Can I interest you in a tour of the place? It doesn't sound like Mr. Pines showed you around much."

Mabel shot out of her chair, hunger forgotten. "I'd love a tour! When can we start?"

Dipper agreed with Mabel and nodded, knowing there wasn't a lot of point in staying here if Stan wasn't going to be joining them for a while. He had already done his best to wash the dishes and countertops, creating a noticeable difference in terms of the kitchen's overall cleanliness, leaving very little to do other than wait. It only made sense to take up Soos on his tour offer.

A friendly smile on his face, Soos led the two out of the kitchen. "Alright dudes, we'll be going through the main parts of the Shack that you'll be working in as the new hires. Have you seen the museum or gift shop yet?"

Dipper tried to recall which room they'd been in yesterday and figured it had to have been the gift shop. Once Stan had flicked on the lights, he remembered seeing an array of gimmicky items lining the shelves, clothing racks and hats, and other gift shop-esque stuff, all with small tags attached to indicate the price. At the time, it'd looked creepy in the dark, but it wasn't as intimidating with the lights on. "We've been in the gift shop," he told Soos. "There's a museum?" He was left to wonder what kind of house this was with its strange architecture, a gift shop, an area hidden by a soda vending machine, and apparently a museum.

"I scared Dipper in there!"

"I was  _startled_ , not scared."

"You almost peed yourself, Dipper!"

Soos gently coughed. "We do have a museum! The Mystery Shack is full of unexplainable oddities found all across the world, and the money that tourists that spend in here keep it running. To get to it, we're going to have to go through the gift shop anyway! I dunno what Mr. Pines has planned for you, but Wendy is our cashier. You'll probably meet her later today!" As the group entered the gift shop, Soos motioned to the cash register. "You can usually find her sitting over there."

"Ooh, a new friend!" Mabel squealed. "I'm going to know everybody in Groovity Falls in no time!"

Walking behind Soos with Mabel by his side, Dipper peered around the gift shop and saw the remainder of the clutter he'd created last night by falling through the window. There was a display case tipped over and a shrunken head on the floor, shards of glass glittering in the sunlight that poured through the window and brightened the interior of the room. The dinosaur skull was missing, and Dipper recalled noticing it back in the living room next to the recliner.

Soos paused at the sight of the damaged display case, shaking his head lightly. "Mr. Pines must've been drinking last night. He gets a bit rowdy – I'm not surprised to see something busted. I'll clean that up after the tour's concluded." As he spoke, he saw the ajar window and moved to close it. "Huh, he must've opened it too. Mr. Pines is a respectable but .. weird man when he's had the bottle. Unlike my real dad."

"Heh," Dipper chuckled and averted his eyes in guilt, knowing it wasn't a drunken Stan but him that'd caused the mess, a hand running through his hair, "yeah… Alcohol can make people act in ways they otherwise wouldn't." Even if he knew that wasn't what'd happened during the night.

"Anyway, museum time!" He led them through the gift shop to another door. Stepping into the room, they were immediately greeted by a variety of exhibits.

From the elusive Sascrotch to the brute of a Six-pack O'Lope, they had displays to appease even the most skeptical of customers and enough souvenirs to drain the largest of bank accounts.

Dipper personally deemed most of the "creatures" to be fake-looking, but Soos reassured him that everybody, townsfolk and tourists alike, adored the curiosities the Mystery Shack could offer them, often returning for several tours. His claim was backed by Mabel's constant ooh-ing and aw-ing over the exhibits they viewed, and her wild, sometimes unrelated questions about them.

"How many cotton balls could we stuff into its mouth?"

"What a unique and misunderstood creature! Can I keep it in my room?"

"If me and this thing got into a fight, who would win?"

The most unnerving part of the tour was the wax museum, featuring a variety of historical figures — he didn't look forward to working around those at night since they looked too lifelike for him to feel comfortable near them. Like the jar of eyes in the gift shop and taxidermied (sometimes rearranged) animals mounted in the Shack, the wax crew seemed to be watching his every move as if there was a shred of sentience in them.

On the other hand, Mabel seemed to be enjoying the wax figures, as she struggled to take the axe from Lizzie Borden's hands. "Why won't it –!" She squealed as the axe came loose and she stumbled back, falling onto her butt.

"You okay female dude?" Soos glanced back at the fallen form of Mabel.

"I'm great!" She scrambled back to her feet, axe in hand. "This axe feels so heavy – is it real?"

Dipper spun to see what'd caused the ruckus and felt his heart leap into his throat at the sight of Mabel holding the wax weapon. "Mabel, you have to put that back!" It didn't matter whether or not it was real, she couldn't just take an axe from a wax figure that didn't even belong to her!

"I do what I want!" Mabel stuck her tongue out at him.

"Y'know, nothing says she can't take it. I dunno if it's real though, I don't mess with Mr. Pines' wax figures."

"And we shouldn't be messing with them either," he protested, sounding a bit whinier than he'd intended to. He wished Mabel would put it back before they caused more collective destruction between the two of them; to Stan, it would look like they were nothing but trouble, bringing chaos wherever they went.

"Why not?" Mabel asked. "It's not harming anything!"

"It's not ours!" The museum's displayed was owned by Stan, not them, and they were only his employees.

"It is now!" She raised the wax axe by the brown handle and began to swing it around, the silvery-steel blade swinging dangerously close to the rest of the wax figures.

"Do you  _want_ to get us fired on our first day?"

"Stan can't afford to fire us, we're in debt!"

The threat Stan had made about calling the cops flickered in his memory, and he'd made it clear that was the other option if employment didn't pan out. But it didn't seem like he was getting anywhere with Mabel, so he could do nothing but hope Stan didn't find the offense to be dismissal-worthy. Giving in, Dipper folded, "Let's just get the rest of the tour done with."

Soos continued on without further ado, though by now there wasn't much left. The Thigh Clops' eye followed them as they passed the Grizzlycorn and Roostdeer, all the while Soos chatted about what it was like to work in the Mystery Shack and what sorts of jobs they might be doing while they were here. "Any questions, dudes?" Soos asked as they neared the end of the displays, the tour concluding where it began: in the gift shop.

Mabel's hand shot up to ask, "Why do some of the exhibits have obvious glue stains?"

"Mr. Pines sometimes has us throw stuff together to make completely new stuff. It keeps people happy with the Mystery Shack's oddities."

Dipper cocked his head. "Isn't that dishonest?" They were scamming tourists with these less-than-truthful creatures and exhibits, the majority composed of animals combined with other animal parts and glued-on fur. That wasn't even touching on the abundance of overpriced junk in the gift shop that Soos implied they were free to lie about if it would result in a sale.

"Look dudes, I just do what Mr. Pines tells me. You should too."

"I could do a much better glue job," boasted Mabel, holding her chin in her hand as she thoughtfully examined the "Fairy" display, the dried patches of glue glaringly obvious where the canine heads met the chicken body, while the axe rested in her grip.

"Maybe Mr. Pines will put you on glue duty?" Soos suggested, then his eyes shifted to the clock. "He should be getting up soon. We might want to head back to the kitchen and meet him there. There'll be Stancakes!"

"Stancakes," Dipper repeated flatly, making sure he'd heard that right. "He can actually cook in that kitchen?" On the brightside, it was now slightly more sanitary with the effort he'd put into tidying it up this morning.

"Sure dude," Soos said with an air of perplexity as they walked through the living room, toward the foyer and then into the kitchen. Carelessly, Mabel had dropped the axe onto the floor when they passed through gift shop. "Why wouldn't he be able to?"

Sitting down at the table, Dipper looked at the room, though it appeared significantly less disgusting than it had before. The plates were cleaned, stacked neatly in the sink as they awaited further sorting into cupboards and cabinets, and the food sludge was mostly wiped away to reveal freshly-scrubbed counters. "Think about it, this place was—" he stopped as he heard the thud of footsteps approaching, stairs creaking under the weight.

Stan's bulky form entered the kitchen, adorned by a stained wife beater and boxers. He scowled at the sight of a cleaner room and the done dishes. "What, did Sixer and his cocklicking assbuddy finally come out of their cave to clean?"

Bewildered and sincerely hoping he hadn't angered Stan, Dipper blinked before shaking his head. "No, not exactly — see, I just thought it'd be nice to do your dishes." Well, more accurately, he couldn't stand the thought of eating anywhere near the grossness that was previously known as Stan's kitchen. He choked down a gag as he remembered the scent of the rotting, goopy food.

"You tryna weasel your way out of paying off your debt to me again?" It was apparent he hadn't forgotten how difficult Dipper had been the night before, but his behavior hadn't been intentional. He had been stressed and afraid, and having a bat hovering over him threateningly hadn't helped sort his thoughts into coherency.

"What? No!" Dipper frowned, then protested, "I'm not! Mabel and I," he looked to his sister and back to Stan, "are more than ready to get to work. Soos already gave us a tour of the museum and gift shop while we were waiting for you." He didn't want Stan to think he was lazy or attempting to skirt paying off the debt when he'd merely wanted to enjoy breakfast in a decently clean kitchen.

"Just so you know, Stan," Mabel said with a grin, "I call gluing stuff together! It'll be the gluey-ist, most glittery-ist exhibits you'll ever see!"

Stan narrowed his eyes at Dipper and he gulped, shifting in his seat. Stan still intimidated him, and not just because he was a towering hunk of muscle that could snap his stick-like body in half. "I'm watchin' you, kid." To Mabel, he was kinder. "Go for it, sweetie." He moved from the doorway to head toward the cabinets. "Now who's hungry? I think it's Stancakes time!"

If Stan hadn't changed the subject, Dipper would be left wondering why he got borderline threatened, meanwhile Mabel got called sweetie. There seemed to be mild favoritism at work, but he was accustomed to it; everybody loved Mabel, she was just so irresistible in her enthusiasm. "So, what  _are_ Stancakes?" He kept hearing about them, from Soos and now Stan, and he didn't know if they were any different from actual pancakes.

Soos answered, "They're Mr. Pines' special pancakes."

"Made with extra love!" Stan winked at them as he began to collect the ingredients, including a bowl and whisk, a bag of flour, eggs, milk, salt, and sugar. He threw the mix into a bowl and paused to light up a cigarette.

"Aren't you worried the cigarette will get stuff in the mix?" Mabel asked, and he faintly nodded to demonstrate a similar worry.

Stan shrugged dismissively, "Nah, if it does it'll put some hair on Dippy's chest and you can smother it in maple syrup, sweetie. I have some in the fridge. Probably."

While the possibility of eating ash from the cigarette was not appealing, Dipper stole a fleeting glance at Mabel with a glimmer of mischief in his gaze; if there was maple syrup, that opened the door for syrup-chugging contests between the two of them. If he was even allowed to have any, since that offer had seemingly only been for Mabel.

"If you need me," Soos added, "I'll be working on tidying up the mess in the gift shop. Just give a holler when breakfast is done, dudes!" With that, he departed from the room, his heavy footsteps growing distant as he headed down the hall.

The sizzling of pancake (or "Stancake") batter soon filled the air, Stan standing over the stove top with a spatula in one hand and his lit cigarette in the other. "So uh… Dippy? What's up with your name?" Stan asked, turning around to look at him. "Your parents hate you or somethin'?"

"It's Dipper." He'd mentioned that to Stan previously, but he didn't blame him for not remembering when Mabel called him Dippy in his presence, and Dipper was an unusual (nick)name to begin with. Electing to be careful when replying to the bit about their parents, he was afraid the runaway situation would be obvious if he admitted they probably did hate them. "It wasn't that. I have… a birthmark, okay?" An embarrassing one, but nevertheless remained the nickname's source.

Stan's eyebrow raised at this revelation. "A birthmark, eh? Show me," he paused, as if trying out the name, "Dipper."

Hesitance plagued him, accompanied by the fear of being made fun of, and he smiled nervously as he shook his head and tried to come up with an excuse not to show it, "I don't think that's—"

Mabel was quick to reach over and brush away the hair that covered the birthmark on his forehead, revealing it to Stan without a second of reluctance. "There you go!"

Almost instantly, Stan fell into a roar of laughter as Dipper's cheeks adopted a bright red hue. "The Big Dipper? Are you serious? We should put you on display in the museum!"

Pulling away from Mabel, Dipper buried his face in his hands and could feel the heat radiating from his skin. He wished he could disappear, hide from the world, or at least not have such an amusing mark on his forehead. "This is exactly why I didn't want you to see it." Everyone who saw the birthmark always had to laugh at him.

Stan turned back to his Stancakes to flip them, the cooked side taking on a charred coloring. "Because it's hilarious?"

Mabel cut in. "Even more so since he's such a  _little Dipper_!"

He could hear both Stan and Mabel burst into another fit of laughter together over this revelation, and Dipper protested, "I'm not that little, guys." Just because he was shorter than them didn't make him  _little_ , especially when Mabel had less than two inches on him. "I don't see why it matters."

"You're right, you're right," Stan said, a grin still on his face. "Your height is just a  _small_ part of you!" He and Mabel were cracking up again, and Dipper folded his arms with a huff.

The Stancakes had finished cooking, and Stan proudly dished them up and brought the plates to the table. "Unfortunately, I have to cut this discussion  _short_  so we can discuss your jobs." Needless to say, the Stancakes looked like something out of a nightmare with pieces of hair sticking out of the blackened flat cake. If any food goop was going to come to life and enact world domination, Dipper figured it'd be these monstrosities. They had a stench of cigarette smoke to them, and upon further investigation (via cutting a piece away with his fork), he discovered a chunk of Stan's cigarette inside.

That was a pretty plausible explanation for the sudden disappearance of his appetite. When he'd cleaned the kitchen, he hadn't considered Stan would actively work to make the food extra inedible. Mabel, conversely, didn't seem to mind and was already digging in to her Stancakes, despite having to spit out a piece of the cigarette filter as she chowed down.

While disappointed in the lack of maple syrup, he didn't think that would even come close to redeeming them.

"Dipper," Stan continued, "you'll be working on restocking the gift shop and cashiering if Wendy isn't around. I'd have you help on tours but… it's you." He wondered if Stan was pointing out his poor people skills. "Also, when you're cashiering, DO NOT give refunds. Those suckers might beg ya for one but once they fork over their cash, it's mine for good. Mabel, as per your request you get to glue things together and you'll be helping me on tours. You both are responsible for making food for everyone, including Soos. He hangs around a lot, comes in early often, sticks around 'til late..." Stan shrugged. "Yeah, the guy's sad like that. Doesn't have a lot going for him, y'know? If you got complaints or questions, you can take 'em up with the outside trash can."

"No questions or complaints here, captain!" Mabel said, giving him a mock salute, and Dipper merely nodded.

"Now, we have to talk about something else since you'll be living here. You met my brother Ford last night. STAY AWAY FROM HIM! He's a no-good traitor to the Mystery Shack and you have no reason to interact with him. Also, there's another geek around here, Nerdleford – if you see him, ignore him too. And stay out of the basement!"

Ever-curious, Dipper's expression changed to one of contemplation and uncertainty at the warning. "Okay, but why?" Ford hadn't seemed terrible, and he wasn't sure why steering clear from him was so important to Stan.

"I told you, if you have questions take it up with the trash outside."

Humming softly, Mabel declared: "I sense unresolved conflict! Might I suggest hugging it out?"

"No."

Dipper found the request suspicious, but pushing for answers didn't seem to be getting them anywhere. Before he could speak again, there was a thunderous and metallic  _BOOM!_  resounding from the lower level of the Mystery Shack, and it rattled the whole frame of the building, then the vibrations slowly tapered off. Worried, he looked to Stan, brown eyes searching — for an explanation, for guidance on how he should be responding to an incredibly loud noise like that.

Stan's fist angrily came down on the table, the dishes clinking from the impact while Dipper flinched, startled by the act of aggression. "See, this is exactly why I don't want you going down there! There's a nerd infestation and I need to get it exterminated before it tears this foundation apart!"

"What's even going  _on_ down there?" Dipper asked, unable to fathom what could make such a ruckus, nerdy or not. And he thought  _he'd_ been loud last night when he'd broken the display case.

All he could do was grunt. "Hell if I know. I'm not in the Nerd Alliance."

"If you hate it so much, why do you let them stay here? It's your house, isn't it?" Nothing Stan had mentioned up to this point suggested he approved of what was occurring downstairs, leaving Dipper to wonder why he allowed it to continue since he had the power to end it whenever he wished.

Stan hesitated, as if debating between whether he should answer or ignore the question. "You wouldn't understand, kid… I almost lost him once. I'm not losing him again. Now get to work! There are shelves to be stocked and our first tour group will be here soon! Dumbass tourists don't rip themselves off!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a splash of Dipper/Wendy in this chapter, but we promise this is a BillDip fic and Dipper's crush on Wendy is short-lived. Not to mention painfully one-sided.

That was an obvious sign the conversation and breakfast had come to a close. Mabel and Stan headed for the museum to escort tour groups and show off their various attractions. Dipper manned the gift shop, lingering near the cash register since Stan said he was on register duty if Wendy wasn't here.

And there was nobody else in the gift shop, aside from a couple guests wandering through it while eyeing up the merchandise. Much like Stan, it seemed Wendy didn't bother being on time either.

It was boring but easy work, ringing up the patrons whenever they were done shopping. Dipper couldn't wrap his head around why anyone would have the urge to buy this junk, even the practical items like clothing, considering the markup on them. No wonder Stan was doing well for himself since people were fooled by the museum's exhibits and stupid enough to drop a hefty couple of dollars on a Mystery Shack shirt. There were postcards, hats, small toys, and other souvenir knick-knacks lining the walls of the gift shop, but nothing appeared to be made of quality materials. Visual appeal of the items was lacking, but patrons would often write it off as  _charming_ or  _peculiar_. For example, the jar of eyeballs sitting only a foot or so away atop the check-out counter was making him shudder; although he imagined they were undoubtedly plastic, they looked like they were watching him.

The mess from the broken display case and shrunken head had disappeared, Soos apparently sticking to his word since it was replaced by a different rack of what appeared to be books and maps on the town's history. The shrunken head was back in its jar but had been relocated.

Eventually, the bell above the door rang and in stepped a lanky teenager, a relaxed smile on her lips and a lumberjack hat covering the top of her red hair. She wore a plaid shirt and jeans, and Dipper…

Well, Dipper tried to avoid staring. He didn't want to make the customer uncomfortable by gazing at her too long, even if she was incredibly attractive.

The way her long hair swayed slightly as she walked… her take-charge gait, her lips lazily curling upward toward her lidded eyes. It was too much.

As if her presence alone wasn't enough to make his palms sweat, his breath caught and he became light-headed when she started to actually— oh no, oh gosh, she was actually walking towards him. The realization made him freeze. Was she going to talk to him, or did she have a question about the Shack? Oh man, what was he supposed to say? What if he was an awkward, sweaty loser like he always seemed to be, and she ended up despising him for it? He willed himself to remain composed, she hadn't even started talking yet.

"Hey," the red-head greeted him, hopping up to sit on the counter while her legs dangled over the side, brown boots clicking against the wooden counter. She leaned in his direction, her weight resting on one hand. "Did Stan replace me already for being late? That's cool."

"H-hm?" Dipper sputtered like a lovestruck idiot, the words not computing for a moment before it clicked into place that she was an employee. "Oh! You're… you must be Wendy, right?" It seemed like his luck to have such an attractive coworker, and he didn't know how he was going to get any work done, but maybe his social awkwardness would take care of the problem by scaring her out of ever talking to him again.

She was distractingly pretty with her contagious grin and soft eyes. He could get lost in them for days, but Wendy's response startled him from his dreamy thoughts.

"In the flesh. I don't think I've seen you around. What's your name?"

He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, no words coming out and panic flickering within him. That was a good question. What  _was_ his name? He couldn't get his jumbled mess of thoughts to cooperate and was temporarily rendered unable to speak, throat working silently until at last he was able to find his voice. "It's Dipper, what's yours?" He mentally facepalmed. He wanted to fall over and curl into a ball and implode and  _die_ , right here in the Mystery Shack gift shop. He knew her name, why had that slipped out?!

She was going to think he was some big idiot. And honestly, he was sure he was not just a big idiot but the biggest idiot in all of history.

Wendy burst into laughter, but he couldn't tell if it was over his mistake or the absurdity of his nickname. "Cute name!" Whichever it was, it didn't matter since she liked it, and he grinned.

Yep, still a big idiot, but it didn't matter anymore because  _he had a cute name._

Although he was blushing madly over his faux pas, he was surprised by her reaction since it wasn't among the standard ones he received. Usually, people would ask about it or jump straight into making jokes, so this was a welcome change of pace. "Wait, you're not going to tease me?"

"Nah, sounds like you already get teased enough." Her tone was light. "Besides, it's nice. Unique."

"Really?" He brightened considerably at the compliment, still beaming from ear to ear. "I guess I just thought you'd make fun of it… Take Stan for example, I'm pretty sure he was laughing for five minutes straight this morning." It hadn't stopped at that, Stan had went into making fun of his height and birthmark too.

"Yeesh, don't sweat it, Stan makes fun of everybody. That's why we get him back by making fun of him when he's not around." She used her free hand to clap him on the shoulder in reassurance. "I dunno what he assigned you to other than cashiering, but I can take over now that I'm here."

"Oh, of course! Stan said that you could work the register, and I'll restock the shelves instead." Dipper shuffled to move out of her way, watching with awe (and trying not to drool) as she gracefully vaulted over the counter to claim her spot behind the cash register. Dumbly, he said, "You're really good at that."

"Thanks." Wendy brushed her hair out of her face before she reached under her till and pulled out an issue of  _Indie Fuzz_.

Seeing Wendy had whipped out a magazine, Dipper took that as his cue to begin on his job — but wait, uh, what was that again?… Shelf restocking, he reminded himself and turned to grab the supplies, toe catching on the wax axe Mabel left on the floor. He tripped and fell forward, luckily managing to catch himself before he hit the ground. With how much he'd been stumbling around as of late, not falling on his face (especially in front of Wendy) was a miracle.

"Whoa, you okay over there?" Wendy glanced up from her magazine, having heard the commotion of his near-fall.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, everything is fine! I'm fine!" Dipper reassured her with a cheesy grin, dusting off his clothes. "Just.. restocking shelves, like Stan told me to!"

She gave a nod toward the wax axe that was on the ground near his feet. "What're you doing with the axe?"

He glanced down at the offending object and laughed a little, "It's kind of a long story. My sister, Mabel, she… stole it from one of Stan's wax figures in his museum this morning and dropped it here. …I guess that wasn't that long of a story." Now that he thought about it, he should probably return the axe to waxy Lizzie Borden.

"What was she going to do with it, give someone forty whacks?" More seriously, she added: "You know, you don't have to put it back. Stan won't notice."

"He won't?" From how he'd drilled them during the break in (and how upset he'd been over his wrecked display case), Dipper would have assumed he was overly-protective of his possessions but since Wendy had worked with him significantly longer than he had, she'd know him better. "I should return it anyway," he added, scratching the back of his neck as he tried to justify himself, "because it would be a bit of a letdown for tourists to see Lizzie Borden without her axe. They already have enough to be disappointed in," he was referring to the painfully fake displays, "they don't need something else."

Wendy laughed at that, and he felt a tiny confidence boost trickle through him. "He didn't even notice when Bill took Lincoln's hat several months back. He's seen it a million times since, literally every time he comes over, but Stan hasn't put it together."

Dipper didn't recognize the name and tilted his head to the side. "Bill?"

"Eh, he visits every now and then. You'll get a chance to meet him." Shrugging, she leaned back in the chair and kicked her legs up onto the counter, the lazy smile returning. "Do what you want with the axe, but I've got a magazine to get back to."

* * *

The Mystery Shack had hosted a seemingly endless stream of guests, and minutes flew by like seconds since he was busy keeping up with the influx of tourists wanting this or that item, trying to get merchandise in a different color, asking if they had other variations in the back. Dipper had done his best to ensure the gift shop remained stocked and presentable, but avoided the desperate horde of customers eager to purchase knick-knacks for their loved ones. Hours later, it was still amazing to Dipper how easily they fell victim to such obviously cheaply-produced, worthless items.

Whenever possible, he'd tried to strike up conversations with Wendy but had been careful to not do it too often at the risk of being annoying. While she was never rude or dismissive, she seemed to prefer the magazine over chatting during the times customers weren't bothering her or checking out items.

Wendy had rose from her station behind the cash register and flipped the sign to 'CLOSED'. Upon seeing Dipper's confusion by this bold move, she'd laughed and said they had an hour to get lunch — Stan was a stickler for keeping his employees busy, but he wasn't the type to unfairly overwork his employees. To Dipper's disappointment, she didn't stick around to eat, however; her friends pulled up in a rusted van, and then she was gone with a promise that she'd be back before they needed to reopen. With a roar of the engine, the group of older teenagers drove off again, hollering and chanting amongst themselves.

Dipper headed to the kitchen and saw Mabel already seated at the table, a transistor radio in her hands that she was toying with idly while all it produced was sounds of static. "Hey bro-bro!" she greeted when he walked in, glancing up at him. "What're we having for lunch? I didn't see much in the fridge other than eggs and milk, but it looked like Mom's clam chowder!"

Making a face at the description, he was reminded of how glad he was that he'd passed on this morning's round of Stancakes.

"Are we allowed to just take Stan's food like that?" He knew they were living here while they paid off their debt by working for Stan, but taking his food seemed like overstepping the boundary. They could grab the emergency food they'd packed in their backpacks, but maybe they should save that for when Stan told them their debt had been paid off since there'd no longer be a reason to stay.

"Who cares?"

Dipper guessed that was one way to approach it. Recalling this morning's meal, he supposed Stan had fed them (and Soos) using his own groceries… so surely he wouldn't mind, right? "I'll have a look," he said as he flipped through cupboards and the refrigerator, mentally taking stock of what he saw in hopes a meal idea would come to him.

Mabel hopped out of her chair to join him by the refrigerator, reaching to pull out the carton of milk and pushing it under Dipper's nose. "Smell this!"

"Gross, Mabel!" he exclaimed before even getting a whiff of it, cringing as the scent actually hit him and made his stomach churn uneasily. It was fouler than anything he'd smelled before in his life, like the milk had done nothing but sit in this refrigerator for the past eight months untouched.

At this rate, he was going to lose his appetite again.

"How are we supposed to be the ones cooking meals if he doesn't have anything to make them with?" Dipper wondered aloud as he thought about how Stan said they were responsible for whipping up food for the household, but was thoroughly stumped by the lack of groceries.

Peering in the refrigerator, he noticed a block of cheese stashed behind the eggs and snatched it for examination. "This looks like it might be okay," he spoke unsurely. "We can just cut around the bad parts." But what they would be doing with it, he didn't know. It was a start.

"Ooh, how bold! I never thought you'd be the one to eat cheese that had mold on it."

It wasn't that he was eager to consume half-molded food, and a more appropriate statement would be that he was settling for this. "Look around! There's nothing else  _to_ eat in here." He didn't understand how Stan could stay alive on this minimal amount of food if this was how the kitchen was usually stocked. Did he always eat out somewhere?

Mabel moved away from him to take another look into the cabinets. "Maybe he has some bread around? We can make sandwiches!" She beamed when she found a half-loaf of bread stashed away in the back of a cupboard.

Dipper brightened at her discovery. "That's great! Now that we have bread and cheese…" he trailed off in thought, running through their options. Sandwiches were alright, but even better would be… "I think we have enough to make grilled cheese." Grabbing a pan and the ingredients, he focused on the prep work, meticulously slicing the cheese to ensure none of the molded bits ended up in their lunch.

"Mmm," he had barely started working and Mabel was already drooling over their food. "I can't wait! It'll be so melty and  _good_ …" Eager to lend a hand, she began to take the salvaged slices of cheese and lined them on the pieces of bread.

It wasn't long before they were enjoying their meal. Mabel had chowed down as if there was no tomorrow, leaving hardly a scrap on her plate, while Dipper ate more slowly but was glad to have food appeasing his hunger after passing up the Stancakes.

As Dipper ate the last of his grilled cheese, Mabel was back to messing with the radio as she leaned back in her chair comfortably, feet returning their propped positions on the table.

"Where did you find that, anyway?" he inquired.

"I took it off a desk."

He arrived at the conclusion that his sister, in other words, had snatched it from someone's desk without bothering to ask and now was fiddling with the signal.

Excitedly, Mabel squealed as she found a working station among the static and let out a victorious, "Yes!" Messing with the other dial, the volume of the device turned up. Through occasional bursts of static, the familiar Simon & Garfunkel tune filled the small kitchen with music:

_God bless you, please, Mrs. Robinson_

_Heaven holds a place for those who pray_

_Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey_

"Ohmygosh, I love this song!" Mabel's face instantly brightened, jumping in to passionately sing with the vocals. "Hide it in the hiding place where no one ever goes, put it in your pantry with your cupcakes.~" Her enthusiasm made Dipper smile, and he couldn't say he minded the song either. It'd come out a couple months ago and was played frequently on most stations after its initial success.

"What's this sound of joyous singing I hear? Who do I need to kill?" interrupted a gravelly voice, Stan appearing in the doorway of the kitchen. Unlike this morning, he was dressed nicely in a black suit with a white undershirt, black slacks, and was wearing a red fez. The eyepatch was unexpected, but suited him in this attire.

"Mabel got the radio working," Dipper explained.

Stan gave him a blank stare. "The radio..? Did you go into my office?" he turned to Mabel.

"Maybe!"

That solved the mystery of whose desk it was, he guessed. Trying to move on from that subject and redirect Stan's attention, Dipper offered, "We made grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch. Want some?" There were still a couple left on the plate since he and Mabel had misjudged their hunger and made too many extras, but it seemed like it would pan out if Stan was interested in taking them for himself.

Looking a little grumpy that Mabel went into his private room, Stan snatched a sandwich. "Sure, kiddo. Where'd you find the cheese, under the fridge?" He took a ravenous bite. "That's where I remember seeing it last."

While displeased Stan was sticking with the nickname 'kiddo' after several attempts to convince him they were teenagers, Dipper didn't protest it this time and shook his head. "Behind the spoiled milk in the refrigerator." Basically the sole item stored in there aside from the sad carton of eggs, though he didn't know why since it was long past the expiration date. Keeping it cold wasn't necessary anymore.

"There's nothing else to eat," Mabel whined. "We need to go shopping! Can we go soon? Please? I like shopping. Mom used to take me and let me stare at the pretty dresses … she also got me some makeup, something about how 'it was the only way I'd look pretty.' I'm getting low on it, though!" She continued to babble, "Dipper wouldn't let me bring most of it with, it wasn't  _practical_ or whatever..." A gasp of realization, her eyes lighting with hope and making her hard to resist. "Do you think we could get more?"

"It  _wasn't_ practical."

"Uh…" Stan visibly hesitated, briefly pausing his consumption of the sandwich. "Sure, sweetie. Whatever you want. If your ma said you need junk on your face to look pretty, I ain't gonna say no. Wish someone woulda told Carla that before I had to. "

Dipper was horrified by the exchange but relaxed when Mabel squealed in delight, and she made a lunge toward Stan to throw her arms around him in a hug. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

With a look of discomfort, he patted her on the head. "Yup." Slowly, he pried Mabel off of him in favor of finishing the last couple bites of his food. "You kids got any hobbies?" Stan asked, Dipper taking that as a conversation starter or a way to get to know them better. Probably both.

It occurred to him that Stan hadn't asked why they were here, or more specifically what they'd been doing to end up here. He'd received the lame explanation that they were trying to get out of the rain, but beyond that, Stan had been kept in the dark. It was better that way for everyone involved given the circumstances, and perhaps he had enough sense not to ask prying questions.

"I like to sing!" Mabel said as she flopped back into her chair, beginning to list off her interests on her fingers. "And glitter, and ponies, and movies, and cute boys, and kittens, and did I ever tell you Dipper sneezes like a kitten?"

He smiled sheepishly at the last piece but responded to Stan with his own answer, "I like school a lot," minus the bullies, "and doing science experiments, reading, solving mysteries. Oh! I build model airplanes too, race slot cars, and... I've always wanted to learn how to surf." The musical trend was surf rock in California (and perhaps amongst teens throughout the country), so naturally Dipper was interested in taking up the sport himself — the problem being that he wasn't at all the sporty type, and was far too nervous to try.

"You sound like you'd be fun at a party," Stan dryly told him. "A twig like you wouldn't last long on a surfboard. The waves would carry you away to Antarctica."

His eyebrows furrowed together in thought. "Wouldn't Hawaii or.. Japan be more likely?"

"I'm not a brainiac, kid. I don't know. Anyway, you raced slot cars? I never figured you for the vehicle type. Thought you were more geeky than that."

"He is more geeky than that," Mabel agreed. "He sometimes made kissy faces with the cars when his friends weren't around."

"...Okay." Stan didn't seem to know what to do with that, the two ignoring Dipper's embarrassed protests and claims that never happened.

"We didn't do it professionally or anything like that, but my friends and I — we'd build tracks and then race the cars on them," Dipper spoke, words spilling as he remembered the fun times they'd had. "We thought that we'd do it for real, like go street racing, when we got old enough to have cars and drive." And the older they'd gotten, the more it seemed like a distant dream because while street racing was the socially "cool" activity to be engaged in, it was extremely dangerous. And illegal, for that matter, but loosely enforced when it happened in rural areas or on country roads. Dipper wasn't much of a risk taker, so he'd accepted it as something that wouldn't be in his future.

Stan's eyes gleamed. "What if I told you that could be a reality?"

"What?" Dipper's eyebrows raised in surprise, bewilderment written across his face. "Seriously?"

"Yup!" Stan grinned. "Bill and I race every few weeks with Wendy and her crew. We just did one the other day, but if you want to tag along next time, you can."

Although he was momentarily stunned by the proposition, not expecting this turn of events, he snapped from the daze to nod dumbly. "I… I can't believe it! I'd love to!" Plus, there was that name again: Bill. Dipper couldn't help but feel his curiosity rise since everybody seemed to really like the guy.

"Can I come too?" Mabel asked. "I want to see how Dipper kisses a real vehicle, if it's anything like the mini ones."

"Uh, sure sweetie." Stan cleared his throat awkwardly. "Dipper, if you kiss my car I'll run you over with her. You can kiss Bill's though." He sloppily brushed the crumbs from around his mouth and grabbed the plate the remaining sandwiches were on.

"I don't do that, I swear!" Maybe when he'd been young, but definitely not anymore, and he didn't want Stan to get the wrong idea since he'd extended a racing offer to him that he could just as easily retract.

"Whatever you say." Stan waved a dismissive hand. "I'm gonna go try to feed my Nerdlebro and his Fickleford. If you need me, don't try to find me."

The squeak of a door opening brought attention to the foyer as he turned to leave, a drenched Soos stepping inside the Shack with a bag lunch in hand. "I was going to eat outside but dudes, it's like, totally downpouring out there again!"

"Shit!" Stan was half a step from barreling into Soos and losing his sandwiches. "Soos, what the fuck?"

"Oh!" Startled, Soos finally seemed to notice Stan. "Sorry, Mr. Pines, didn't see you there."

"No kidding," Stan grumped. "Must be all that talkin' while walkin', makes you fucking oblivious."

A faint blush colored Soos' cheeks, and he looked down in what came across as shame. "I was going to ask, if you don't mind.. uh, can we talk?"

"Can it wait? I was planning on going downstairs–" He sighed at the sight of Soos looking like a kicked puppy. "Okay, let's go into the living room and get on with it."

Once they were out of hearing range from Mabel and Dipper, secluded in the Mystery Shack's living room, Soos fidgeted as he seemingly tried to find the right words. "You know how you have those two new dudes working here at the Shack?" In his voice, Stan could identify the nervousness as well as distant guilt, like he felt bad about even bringing this up.

"Yeah? Whatta 'bout em?" This better not be him pulling a Ford. He was getting sick of people trying to tell him to kick the kids out.

"Are… are they replacing me?" Soos brought in a deep breath. "You can be straight with me, Mr. Pines. I can take it."

Huh. That was unexpected.

"Soos–"

He didn't give Stan a chance to reply before he went on, shuffling from foot to foot, "You could even pay me less, and.. I'll do double the work to keep up since there are two of them!"

On one hand, it was tempting to be honest and tell Soos he wasn't being replaced, nor had the thought ever crossed his mind when he brought on the kids as new hires. On the other hand, his more business-savvy hand that hid cards under the table when he gambled, he liked the idea of not paying Soos as much. "They were going to replace you," he decided, "but since you're okay with being paid less, I guess I can keep you on the payroll. You better not slack off though if you want to keep this job!"

His big eyes filled with relief and then glee at the agreement, nodding eagerly. "Thank you, Mr. Pines! You got it, I'll get back to work right now!" Soos started walking toward the gift shop, calling to him over his shoulder, "I'm lucky to have a boss like you!"

Stan laughed, "Aren't we all?" He was the best and he knew it. All the other bosses sucked lemons in comparison.

As Soos left, Stan took that as a sign he could  _finally_  see Ford. Trailing behind Soos only because he needed to get to the Pitt Cola vending machine, he wasted no time in punching in the code when his employee wasn't looking and slipping inside. The grilled cheese undoubtedly lost some of its warmth, but Ford probably wouldn't care because he had to be used to leftovers by now.

As he descended the staircase, he could faintly hear the sound of Ford's voice hollering at Fidd— no, Kiddleford. That dirty broth- no,  _boyfriend_ stealer. It seemed there might've been some trouble in paradise, given the yelling sessions seemed to be more common nowadays. It was always  _"Where's my coffee?"_ and  _"WHY DIDN'T YOU WRITE THAT DOWN, YOU IMBECILE! NOW WE HAVE TO START OVER!"_  Stan was convinced the relationship wouldn't last, and when it failed… he would swoop. He would be there for Ford.

The stairs melted away into an elevator, and after the pulley slowly made its way down the depths of the earth, he found himself looking into the laboratory. All of this seemed overly complicated for a room filled with control panels and large computers with flashing lights and shiny buttons. He couldn't understand why Ford went through all this for … what, a giant triangle with a circle in the middle of the room? Stan never had been fond of geometry.

It had a faint blue glow to it, but it was flickering dimly like it was emitting tiny bolts of blue electricity – a sign it wasn't fully functioning. When Bill broke it, he sure as hell did a good job of destroying the damn thing, whatever it was. Despite working on it over the course of several months, it still wasn't fixed.

He could hardly give a flying fuck about Ford's machine, though. He was here to give Ford food, not be exposed to the nerd radiation.

The basement's ambience seemed so uninviting to Stan with its metal parts strewn about, the large ceiling, diagrams and notes plastered on the wall, and the tangle of wires everywhere. Maybe that was why Ford acted distant and cold toward him — he spent too much time here where the surroundings definitely didn't promote familial warmth. The upstairs of the Shack with its log cabin ambience and rustic charm was thousands of times friendlier.

A few more seconds passed before his brother seemed to sense something was off among his gadgets and geek junk, and Ford turned around, bringing him completely into view. Stan's mood deflated as he could see the change in his expression: from intense curiosity to something flat and vaguely annoyed. "Can we help you, Stanley?" The icy words apparently grabbed the attention of Turtleford as well, leaving both to stare at him expectantly.

"I brought you food," Stan said as he beckoned to the plate of sandwiches in his hand. "The kids made it, and I figured you hadn't eaten today with all your nerdiness."

"The kids," Ford repeated, as if trying the phrase out for himself. "I'd believed you would have come to your senses by now and removed them from the household, but it appears I've overestimated you."

"I underestimated how much of a little bitch you'd be about me hiring new employees. They're none of your business, Ford. They work for me and as long as you're a  _guest_  in my household, you have no say in their residency." He had a right to do what he wished with  _his_ house, the  _same_  house he  _allowed_  Ford to stay in to conduct his research. Besides, Stan didn't see Ford paying any bills, and he was kind enough to not charge him rent, but he was tempted to start doing so after the way he'd treated him during his stay.

His stay as a… what was that key word again? Oh right, guest.

Sensing the tension in the air, Fiddleford tapped his fingers together as he said, "Stan, I reckon Ford here has a point 'bout them there kids, seein' as they... "

He received two simultaneous albeit very similar answers:

"Shut the hell up, Fiddleford. No one asked for your input."

"Kindly stay out of this. It doesn't concern you."

"You can shut the hell up too, Ford. All I wanted was to bring you some food. I didn't come here for your.. whatcha call it, incessant nagging."

Ford's expression twisted into one of anger, but Stan couldn't determine which part had set him off. "You've barged into my laboratory despite the many requests to leave me in peace while I'm working! Fiddleford and I are up to our glasses in work, and we don't have time for your pesky visits."

" _Your_ laboratory? This is  _my_  house.  _I_  have the right to go wherever the fuck I please. But fine, if you don't want food, I'll go."

"Fellers…" Biffleford tried again.

"The fact of the matter is that I simply don't have the time or the desire to place my work aside to indulge your ridiculousness, so consider yourself free to leave."

"Put a sock in it," Stan growled irritably to both of them. Why the hell did he bother trying to be a good brother? "And have your fucking food anyway. I was just tryna be nice." He made a point of tossing the food at a nearby computer, not caring to see if it hit or not.

The towering machine flickered more intensely for a couple seconds, drawing Fiddleford's attention away from the building argument to frantically snatch a notebook and began scrawling notes.

Meanwhile, Ford didn't seem to notice the change, his irritated gaze quickly turning into something guarded and resentful as he eyed him. "I  _appreciate_ ," it sounded strained, insulting, "your meager attempt, but I know what tends to happen when you are around my experiments, so I'd like to again ask you to remove yourself from this basement."

His lukewarm, obviously forced sentiment was grating. "Oh,  _fuck you_ , Stanford!" Stan had never felt such a burning desire to beat the living shit out of his brother before now, and as his body bristled, he lunged forward to tackle Ford to the ground.

When Stan's body collided with Ford's, they fell roughly to the hard floor of the lab, and he heard a puff of air escape from Ford as a result of the impact. Ford squirmed for a second before shoving back against his shoulders, using a knee to knock him off balance.

In the background, he could hear Fiddleford's noise of surprise as he realized a brawl had broken out, but Stan paid no attention to it. He fell back, a low growl in his throat as he swiped to grab Ford's gray dress shirt, catching himself before he went down completely. He yanked himself up, his fisted hand coming down on Ford's stupid face.

The blow was satisfying, and he could see the expression of pain that crossed his brother. Take that, fucker. It was hard for him to feel concern after all the hell Ford had given him over the years.

He could see the rage forming on Ford's features as the shock of being hit wore off, and Stan grunted when his brother twisted to elbow him in the ribcage, breaking away.

It stung, but he paid the wound no heed. "Get over here you piece of shit!" Stan snarled as he pursued Ford into the control room, still ignoring Fiddleford's pleas to stop fighting, that it was too dangerous to do around the active portal.

He wanted to tell Fiddleford to shut up about that fucking damn portal, for all he cared Ford and his lousy boyfriend could fall through it.

Once more, Stan attempted to lunge for Ford, intending on tackling him to the ground to get in a couple more decent blows to that asshole's face. It was easier to fuck him up when he wasn't running around, and Stan would have succeeded in his plan, if not for Ford turning on him in time to reflexively counterattack, kicking him away.

Stan doubled over, the wind knocked from his lungs. Off balance, he fell into the side of one of the control panels, where exposed wiring glowed orange with heat. Stan hissed in pain, recoiling away instantly as the metal burned away the fabric of his shirt to sear his skin. "Shit!"

Ford's eyes widened, all traces of animosity forgotten. "Oh my gosh, Stan!" he gasped, worried and already advancing toward him. "Are you alr—?"

Unlike his brother, Stan was still fuming with anger. Hurt in more than one way, he wasn't ready for Ford's concern, and the second his brother was within reach, Stan nailed him in the fucking face with a well-aimed blow.

Ford staggered backwards with a betrayed squeal of pain, a six-fingered hand lightly brushing over where Stan's fist had connected with the skin to assess the damage.

"Fucker," Stan breathed as he struggled back to his feet. His shoulder burned like fire, and he was certain he'd be dealing with a blister. Fucking fantastic.

"Since you fellers are busy fightin' and hollerin' at one another like a snake in a badger's den..." Fiddleford's nervous voice rang out, followed by a sound of winding down, gears halting. Silence replaced the whirring noise of the machines, indicating he'd shut everything down in light of their physical altercation.

"Stanley, go upstairs," Ford muttered through a sigh, looking worn. He began to walk away from him, returning to Fiddleford and the huge triangle-circle thing.

Contempt flooded him at the blatant dismissal, the lack of reaction. So now Ford was going to act all high and mighty, like he was the mature one here, refusing to fight like the stupid,  _goddamn hippie_ that he was.

"Oh, go fuck yourself  _Fordsy_!" That seemed to make his brother pause, his body visibly tensing.

" _Don't_  call me that, Stanley." There was a gritty edge to the words said through his teeth, but Stan couldn't give a fuck. He knew Ford hated the nickname Bill had given him, that was the  _point_. This fight wasn't over, and Stan wasn't about to let him get away so easily. With Ford's back turned to him, Stan went into a run, bowling into his brother. The force of the impact sent them tumbling in a mess of limbs into the triangular machine, the added weight of both their bodies crashing through one of the portal's support beams.

The entire metal triangle began to tip over with a deafening creak and then a crash, and Stan watched through dazed, dark eyes as it collapsed entirely onto the floor. The dust settled to reveal most of it was a pile of bent metal, broken pieces, and screws rather than the powerful machine it had been mere moments ago.

His brother appeared equally dumbfounded until he realized what was happening. "Wh- ...what have you  _done_?" It was hardly more than a shocked whisper as they lay amongst the wreckage, the bits of the portal scattered around the floor surrounding them.

Ford weaseled his way out from under Stanley to pull himself up, pointing angrily to the exit with hatred replacing his shock as he boomed, "Get the hell out of my laboratory!"

"Fine," Stan snapped. "But you can go fuck yourself and this stupid laboratory. I don't want to see you again Stanford. Or you, Dickleford." Cursing as he rose to his feet once more, Stan slowly made his way to the elevator, only stopping when he neared the shattered plate and discarded sandwiches. In a fit of irrational anger, he stomped them into a crumbly mess on the floor. "Fuck these sandwiches, too!" If it weren't for them being fucking made, none of this would've happened. Probably.

The tussle had left his shoulder stinging even more, and one of the first things he planned on doing was trying to throw ice on it. He was done with Stanford. Forget making him pay rent, he was tempted to tell his brother to pack up and go find another basement to infest.

* * *

Collapsed in his armchair, Stan blankly stared at the television, drowning out the noise of  _Gilligan's Island_  as he sat in thought. His shoulder had continued to burn like a motherfucker throughout the day, and his muscles were sore from the alteration. Attempting to continue tours had been difficult – every little movement with his arm made him want to cut it off, and he hadn't been left in a cordial mood once he left the basement. Although he did his best to put on a show for the guests, he was glad to have Mabel around, as she'd been more than ecstatic to take over most of the touring work for the day. Dipper had also been useful, keeping up with the stocking and even taking over the cashiering when Wendy booked it for the night.

Dinner had gone decently, though Stanfuck and his fuck-friend hadn't come upstairs for it, not that he'd expected them to bother with inherently polite things to do such as attending meals. The kids had made more sandwiches due to the lack of food in the house, and they'd talked over dinner.

"I saw you come up from the basement!" Stan remembered Mabel telling him. "Did you and Ford hug it out?"

"Well, I did have my hands wrapped around him at one point." Not to hug it out, but because he'd really wanted to strangle his jackass of a brother. Still, Mabel had accepted that without further questions.

After they'd gone to bed he found himself missing their company. In a way, Dipper almost reminded him of the old Ford, before he went off to college and became a little bitch.

Stan grimaced slightly as he moved his shoulder, pain shooting through his back. When he had come upstairs earlier, he'd tried to throw ice on it and bandage it, but his attempts without help had been futile. Wearing clothes had proven to be a terrible idea, given the fabric rubbed against the growing blister had caused it to rupture. To try to remedy that, he stripped to only his wife-beater, but it didn't do anything to reduce the pain of every small movement. The torn skin was weeping clear liquid, so he sincerely hoped the rapidly drying goo wouldn't get shit stuck in the open wound.

There was that damn sound of the vending machine moving again. Lucky him. Stan could only hope Ford was going to bed and wouldn't come into the living room to pester him because he'd seen enough of his brother's stupid face today. He wouldn't hesitate to give it another good old fashioned pounding if the opportunity arose.

He could faintly make out movement in the corner of his eye near the door frame that led to the gift shop, but he was too stubborn to give him the time of day, knowing who was standing there.

Ford cleared his throat, something he figured was an attempt to grab his attention, defiantly deciding Sixer was going to have to try better than that.

Stan continued to ignore him in favor of watching Gilligan try to climb a coconut tree with minimal success, the recorded laugh track playing in the background.

"Stanley."

"Assford."

"Don't be so childish."

That hit a nerve. " _I'm_  childish?" he demanded, still refusing to even peek at Ford. He wouldn't allow him the satisfaction. "You're the one who won't let anything go. I can't even try to visit you and give you food without you being so... fucking snobbish."

Ford moved further into the living room, taking a couple steps before stopping as if unsure if he should come any closer. He could see that his hands were folded behind his back, a common pose for him, and Ford was holding something but Stan wasn't curious enough about it to break his gaze away from the black-and-white pictures of the television. "I can respectfully acknowledge why you were upset, but realize that my experiments require extensive concentration, and I don't have the luxury of dropping everything to take time to eat." A pause. "However, I'm willing to extend forgiveness to you over today's events."

"Right," Stan responded sarcastically. "You'll 'forgive me.'" It was complete with air quotes, but Stan winced in pain as the movement agitated his newly-acquired burn. "Then tomorrow you'll throw it in my face like you do about  _everything_  I've done that's 'wronged' you." That time, he didn't bother with the quotes after having learned his lesson, but it was hard to trust his brother after years of his inability to forgive over one stupid mistake that he deeply regretted.

He started to shuffle closer again. "I'm a man of my word," he started, "but I understand why you may be skeptical."

"So far you haven't given me a reason to trust your word." Stan grumbled.

"To illustrate my forgiveness over your…" he trailed off, but corrected himself, "over what occurred in the laboratory today, I've brought a salve. It's of my own invention, designed to help with the pain and healing process."

"What, did you have Jackoff-ford jizz in it or something?" Stan spared him a glance, but it lingered for barely more than a couple seconds.

Ford made a face, "That's… highly unsanitary. Absolutely not."

Stan cracked a smile. When his brother wasn't being unbearable, his cluelessness was sometimes cute. "Oh, so  _you_  did. Hot."

"Putting aside the unwavering integrity of my inventions, I… I don't entertain such primal, basic urges as  _other people_  do." The words were clearly directed at Stan.

Laughing, Stan said: "Please, I remember when you were begging for my cock to be inside of you. Don't try to act innocent, Ford."

Obviously trying to ignore what'd been said to him, Ford's eyes shifted and he reverted the subject, "Would you like the salve or not? I encourage you to at least try it."

A pause, the only noise in the room the sound of the television in the background. There was still some anger toward his brother over earlier, but he wanted to do whatever he could to ease the pain. The sooner it was healed up, the better. "...Fine. But I'm applying it myself." He didn't want Ford to touch him since the fucker didn't deserve that privilege.

"Certainly," he replied with raised eyebrows, appearing to be briefly surprised by his wish to apply it himself. Ford unclasped his hands, holding out the tin of salve to Stan like it was some sort of peace offering.

Stan grabbed the tin, careful to avoid Ford's hands as he took it from his brother. He peeled open the top and scooped some of the ointment up with his fingers before he attempted to twist his arm over his back. The burn was just out of reach, and stretching the muscle of his back only resulted in more pain. Ford, that asshole, seemed to be fighting to keep a straight face, crossed between concern and amusement, while he watched him twist and turn to reach the wound.

The sudden laugh track from the television couldn't have happened at a worse time.

Scowling at his brother, Stan stopped his movements in favor of flicking the goop at him, which Ford frowned at. "If you think it's so funny, Stanford, you do it. Go ahead and rub your hands all over my popped blister."

"Alright," was his even response as he took the tin, dipping his digits into the goopy liquid and positioning himself behind the armchair for better access. There was a long moment when nothing happened, no fingers spreading gross salve over his skin, and he wondered what was taking him.

About to impatiently yell at him to get on with it, Ford spoke before he had the opportunity. "Oh, Stanley," he heard Ford sigh behind him. "This— your burn is… bad." He tensed as he felt the coldness connect with the affected area, feeling the pads of deft fingertips gently brushing over it.

He almost grimaced at the touch, but his body slowly relaxed beneath his fingers that were busy still smearing the lotion onto his burn. "Yeah, well," Stan muttered, "having skin get cooked by exposed wires then ruptured by fabric isn't a good time. Surprised it's not completely raw."

Hit by the sudden realization the last time Ford had helped him like this was when he was still boxing, Stan glanced back at his brother. It was years ago, when his muscles were stiff from the fighting and he was bloodied and bruised. They were still together. Did Ford remember? Did he care?

Likely not, he determined. Ford seemed … content with Cockleford for the time being, despite what Stan wanted to believe. He wanted Ford to look at him like he occasionally looked at the other male — a rarity, but it still happened from time to time and Stan  _loathed_ him for it, for stealing his brother's attention like that. He desired his affection, his love, but deep down he knew there'd be no hope for rekindling that old flame as long as Ford was with Fiddleford and didn't let go of Stan's accident.

The thought hurt more than his burn.

Stepping back and placing the tin atop the small table in the corner of the room, Ford instructed, "Avoid disturbing it as much as possible, but it should heal at a much faster rate now. I imagine Soos or… the kids," there was a hint of resignation in his tone, "would be more than happy to help you reapply, if necessary."

"Right," Stan's voice was quiet. "Thanks, Ford." He didn't watch the touch of Soos, or the kids, though he knew Soos would be eager to assist him. He just wanted Ford. He wanted Ford to touch him like he meant it, like he actually cared instead of doing it out of misplaced obligation as he had been a minute ago.

"Of course," the reply was dismissive, but not in a cruel way. "I suppose I should head back to the laboratory. The portal's state is… a sorry one, at best." To Stan's surprise, it didn't contain an inflection of blame aimed at him. Maybe Ford actually had meant it when he said he was forgiven.

Yeah, sure.

"I guess I'll see you later, then," he responded. "Whenever you decide to poke your head out of that nerdhole of yours." Truthfully, he didn't think he would see Ford until well into tomorrow.

Ford peered at the clock, then to Stan. "The night is still young. There are plenty of hours left to be productive before I'll have to return upstairs to rest."

And that was the reason why. Most of Ford's life was spent in the basement, and his working hours were a mess. Stan didn't know when he found time to sleep with how much of a workaholic he seemed to be, obsessing over his wild inventions and theories for the better part of the day and night. He didn't know when to give it a break, and perhaps would've reminded Stan of their father if not for his passion for the work.

Stan returned his attention to the television, not that he was genuinely invested in what was happening. "You go do that, Poindexter."

Seemingly out of things to say, Ford stood there in the middle of the living room for a couple more seconds before turning around to disappear into the gift shop, his exit solidified by the vending machine moving back into place.

After watching Ford leave, Stan sighed at the sound of the laugh track playing, feeling like it was laughing at him rather than some stunt of Gilligan's. His attempts at talking to Ford had been pathetic at best and he knew it, but there wasn't much he could do about that. At least Ford had apparently forgiven him for breaking the dumb machine, even though Stan wasn't completely over it.

It was more than a bunch of broken bits laying in a chaotic heap. It was the wreckage, the utter destruction, of their relationship, and how they'd drifted apart after Ford left for college many years ago. It almost didn't feel like he had him back since he spent his life in the basement, wasting his affection on his dopey assistant.

No, the problem was much more complicated because while Ford could always fix the portal, no amount of work could guarantee a repaired relationship between him and his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold onto your seats because things are about to start kicking off & as always, much thanks to those who leave kudos/comments!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer update with some one-sided Wendy/Dipper again. Also, brief Fiddauthor and Mabel/Gideon scenes.

"Rise and shine, kids!"

Groggy, Dipper sat up to rub the sleep from his eyes and stretch, gradually becoming more aware of his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was a weight sliding from his chest into his lap, and he peered down only to see the familiar red-covered book resting atop his thighs, opened haphazardly with a pen caught between the pages. He must've fallen asleep while journaling — again. That'd make it the third time this week.

Bright orange rays of light from the rising sun streamed through the window, shining on the wooden paneling of his and Mabel's room. Had they overslept? It was the only plausible reason that came to mind as he internally questioned why Stan would be waking them, but it made no sense because they were usually awake hours before Stan bothered rolling out of bed. Turning to look at the nightstand clock, he groaned loudly enough for Stan to hear him through the door, "Stan! It's six in the morning!" And it was Sunday, no less. It seemed insane to expect him and Mabel to jump into working so early on what was intended to be a day of rest.

"Yeah, and? Come on, we got places to be! Today's a day for worship and coming together as a community!"

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Mabel beginning to stir from the commotion, looking confused, tired, and like she would rather be snoozing.

How Stan explained it suggested they were… "You're making us go to  _church_?" Dipper was crossed between irritated and horrified at the possibility since their family never had been too religious, and he'd been told bone-chilling stories of cult-like small towns worshipping insane deities in over-the-top ways. He hoped that wasn't what he'd gotten himself into, but in retrospect, perhaps he should have asked sooner if Gravity Falls was home of a backwoods cult.

"Hell no, we're going to the market! Just the thought of going to a church makes my skin burn. Now get up and get the glue!"

"Glue?" That seemed to convince Mabel to hop right out of bed, fully awake. "I'm on it, Stan!"

"That's my girl! Both of you, downstairs in five. If you're not there willingly, I'll come back up and drag you down by your feet!"

Dipper cringed at the threat, wondering how many splinters the human body could even handle. Not wanting to find out, he slipped out of bed and began getting dressed by pulling a plain shirt over his head, followed by a vest. "I wonder what we're going to do with the glue…" he murmured in thought, partially to himself as he determined it had to be something important if it apparently couldn't wait for a more reasonable hour (or day of the week) to come along.

Displaying energy levels Dipper didn't know were possible for this time of morning, Mabel was already almost dressed, sporting her purple  _Meow Wow!_  sweater. "Whatever it is, it'll be fun!"

"Fun like the glitter incident?" he asked, rolling his eyes. "I'm still getting it out of my clothes." It'd been several days since Mabel had spilled glitter on him, effectively turning him into human tinsel considering it didn't wash out of fabric easily. Wendy had been affectionately teasing him with the nickname Twinkletoes whenever they worked together in the gift shop.

"And it makes you look fabulous!"

After they arrived downstairs, they found Stan sitting at the table in the living room. Mabel bounded over to him to claim a chair, proudly announcing, "I've got glue!" while Dipper trailed behind and tried to figure out what was  _on_ the table. It looked like heaps of useless garbage. There were misshapen chunks of wood in one pile, an assortment of paints, papers, stickers, glitter, a couple of their best-selling items from the gift shop, and a jar of googly-eyes. Other miscellaneous materials, such as cloths and metals, were bunched together.

"Glad to see you made it," Stan said with a grin. "Get comfortable, we'll be doing some crafts. The market opens in a few hours and we're going to be ready to rob these suckers blind. Mabel, I want you to make something out of these paper scraps. Something we can pass off as 'good'," he shrugged, "maybe something patriotic – I know the war's a popular subject these days, gets those dimwits all fired up and ready to spend money. Dipper, you'll be refurbishing some of our clothing items. Grab a marker and make it troopy."

Mabel squealed excitedly. "I'll add glitter to it!" And she immediately went to work, digging through the provided box of scraps to find something she could make it dazzle with.

Unlike his sister, he hesitated, feeling like this was among the more dishonest things Stan had requested they do but having little choice in the matter. They already lied on tours and in the gift shop to sell merchandise, he didn't know why they couldn't go a single day without scamming somebody.

"I like your spirit!" Stan complimented, patting Mabel on the head before his attention shifted to Dipper. "As for you, get the lead out and start workin'."

Despite the lingering uncertainty, Dipper grabbed a handful of hats and markers, scribbling the word "USA" on the top with a poorly-drawn American flag next to it. His artwork was abysmal as he held it out for examination, frowning slightly. "Like that?"

"Perfect. These suckers will buy anything that looks… somewhat American, and what's more American than lazy craftsmanship?"

Although that did nothing to boost his confidence in the junk they were going to be selling, Dipper continued working on more hats by adding a bit of sloppy American flair to them. "What is the, uh," he paused as he tried to recall what Stan called it earlier, "market? Does the town just get together to sell things on Sunday?" Because he'd never heard of it, he wasn't sure if he'd simply been raised sheltered, or if hosting weekly markets was an event exclusive to tiny towns like Gravity Falls. In Piedmont, marketplace shopping was unnecessary when they had stores to cater to their needs within a couple miles, but he figured this town was too small to house a wide variety of businesses.

Glancing at him, Stan paused in adding googly-eyes to the sadly-constructed wooden soldiers. "Everyone in town gathers their shit and sets it up around the ol' Nathaniel Northwest statue to show it off and sell it. They do it every Sunday instead of going to a church. Hell, I don't even think there're churches in this town."

Although he didn't know who Nathaniel Northwest was, it was interesting nonetheless since he'd never heard of any tradition like this one, but chalked it up to the fact that Gravity Falls was secluded and small. It was strange to host a social event, an assembly of the population, rather than one of religious nature on Sunday. "Is there anything good for sale, or is it all…" he looked down at the clothing that he was "improving" and Mabel's glitter-covered wads of paper. Their merchandise was a mess, and that was speaking volumes when he was accustomed to the poor quality of the gift shop items. Abandoning his earlier thought, he couldn't help but ask, "Are you sure people will pay money for this?"

"What, you think just because I'm having ya make trash, everyone has trash?" Stan shook his head at him. "Look, you'll have plenty of time to look around. You'll be scoping out the place, seeing what the other folks're selling." He laughed, "And kid, I promise they'll buy anything! I could spit on a wad of paper, have a dog chew it up, then shove it in a clogged septic tank and they'd still buy it for a buck or two."

"Lucky!" Mabel cut in, taking a break to shake Dipper's shoulder roughly as if she couldn't contain herself, causing the marker's ink to go every-which-way on the fabric. "You get to explore and see everyone's junk!" Dipper's cheeks colored slightly at the implication, but she went on before he had a chance to say anything. "What do I get to do, Stan?"

"You'll be selling things at the stand with me, sweetie."

Dipper stopped in his movements, discontented. "Wait, hold on," he started, "why don't I get to sell things at the stand?"

"Because it's you."

Offended, his eyebrows furrowed and he adopted an expression of defiance. "What does that mean? I can sell things! You're always putting me on gift shop duty." Granted, Wendy was there with him and interacted with the customers more often than he did, but it was just logical that he should be more than qualified to assist in running the marketplace stand as well.

"I think he means you're too awkward," Mabel offered as an explanation, looking up from her mess of glue and glitter.

Stan sighed. "Okay kid, if you want to try to sell something if you want, but when you fail you'll just be assigned to scoping out the 'competitors.' Ya got that?"

Determination swept throughout Dipper, and he realized he wanted to show Stan (and Mabel) that he could be an asset to them, and not merely in spying on other vendors. "If I don't sell something to the first person that stops by, fine." Maybe a risky bet to propose, but he was confident he could make it work — how hard could it be? What Stan said suggested these people were a bit on the unintelligent side. Plus, nobody in this town knew how awkward he was, aside from the Mystery Shack employees, so he'd have a fresh slate and could simply act confident.

With a renewed sense of urgency, he returned to marking up the hats and shirts with American words and symbols, this time at a more rigorous pace as if to demonstrate his own usefulness.

"It's a deal, then." Stan smirked slightly. "Can't wait to see how you mess this up."

"I won't!" Dipper protested, wishing he could  _just for once_ have the natural charisma that Mabel did, or even Stan. He could be so much more to them than another set of eyes.

"Whatever you say, bud. Hey Mabel," Stan's attention diverted to her. "That's a nice, uh, flag you got going there."

"Thanks!" Mabel beamed at the compliment, lifting her contraption to show an unfortunate excuse of a glittery American flag. "I call it: Old Glittery!"

Dipper took in the sight of her modified flag, unsure of what to think or how to begin to respond. "It's… shiny," he offered. "I guess it really captures the… American spirit?" It was impressive in a kitschy way, but he figured Mabel usually was the more artistic and creative one between the two of them.

"Is that because we Americans are so dazzling?"

"Alright!" Stan interrupted. "Looks like we got enough shit, kiddos! Time to pack it up into my car." He swept the majority of the altered 'goods' into his arms and unceremoniously dumped it into a nearby box, beginning to haul it out the door. He had to twist to avoid the energetic form of Mabel, brushing past him through the cramped entryway to go outside.

Dipper collected the articles of clothing that now were marred with phrases like "USA", "Freedom", and "Patriotic" alongside haphazard drawings of eagles, flags, and fireworks. It was all incredibly amateur at best, or unrecognizable at worst, but he thought back to Stan's reassurance that the townsfolk of Gravity Falls weren't particularly selective in their shopping tastes.

At the car, Stan opened the trunk of his red El Diablo to drop the box inside, and the figurines rattled at the impact of hitting the dark carpet. He slammed it shut with a glance down at his arm. "Looks like we gotta get goin'! We don't got time for breakfast, so we'll just grab something there."

"But  _Stannn_!" came Mabel's insistent whine, but a moment later she squealed, "I call shotgun!" In a matter of seconds, she was already comfortable in the passenger seat, which left him with very few options of where to sit, not that he was surprised to be banished to the backseat.

"No buts, sweetie! I promise ya, you can have an apple or an orange when we get there." Having closed the trunk of the vehicle with their items safely inside, he was getting in the driver's seat while Dipper followed suit to get into the back.

Stan froze before he proceeded further, and he quickly pulled a hat from his jacket and turned to pass it back to Dipper. "For you, kiddo! To show people you're with the Mystery Shack and replace that… brown thing on your head."

Dipper didn't move to take it yet and instead frowned, confused. "That's my hair." Maybe Stan was trying to subtly convey that he needed a haircut.

"... Oh. Cover it anyway. Seriously."

Deciding not to protest, he accepted the hat from Stan and looked it over, noting that it was one of the nicer items the Mystery Shack carried, though it remained far from worth the price tag. It was blue and white with a pine tree on the front, quite stylish overall, and he slipped it on.

"Alright, lookin' good!" Stan turned back to the front.

"Do I get something?" Mabel was giving Stan the irresistible, pleading eyes.

"No, not today sweetie. You'll be selling things with me. Dipper will be a walking advertisement."

So that's what the hat was about, he realized miserably, but broke in to claim, "I'm still going to show you that I can sell things too." He was just as capable of a salesperson.

Stan shook his head, glancing up at the rearview mirror and adjusting it to bring Dipper into his line of sight. "You keep saying that, but I aint' believin' it 'til I see it for myself."

The drive couldn't have been more than ten minutes, maximum, before they arrived near the town square. It was bustling with energy, people walking and talking and shopping, and multiple vendors had already set up their stands around the edge of the sidewalks to display their wares. There was clothing, pottery, artwork, knick-knacks, collectibles, antiques… everything imaginable, but none of it that appeared to be particularly high quality. He supposed that Stan really knew his customers.

With the windows of the El Diablo rolled down to bring in a cool breeze in the otherwise uncomfortable heat of summer, the scent of food, something Dipper identified as baked goods, wafted through the air. As they drove closer to the townsquare, all he could hear was the noise of chatter, some voices ringing out above the rest to hype up their sales.

One vendor's space was intricately decorated. From a distance, it looked more like a tent instead of a table as most had, and he could make out the words 'TENT OF TELEPATHY' on a large sign followed by various symbols. A bit on the peculiar side since he wasn't a firm believer in any type of psychic, but one operating in a tiny town seemed especially suspicious.

Stan threw the vehicle into park and moved to get out of his car. "Grab the stuff in the back and let's go!" he barked at them as he headed to where he planned on placing the stand, the kids trailing after with their hands full of ready-to-sell items. It was as far away from the Tent of Telepathy as one could reasonably get, an accomodation that was no accident given how many spots were available between them.

They approached the designated table and Stan spread his arms out, as if presenting it to the teenagers. "Now, lo and behold… the Mystery STANd!"

"Booo!" Mabel called in response to the pun but surged forward anyway to begin dumping the items out, sorting them to create an organized display while Dipper worked on doing the same.

He was straightening out the shirts and smoothing wrinkles from the fabric when a shadow passed over him, bringing Dipper to look up only to discover he was face-to-face with an even bigger wall of muscle than Stan. Maybe there was something in the water here. The towering man had a foot of height (at least) on Dipper, and he was about twice or three times as thick. He wore a gray flannel shirt and suspenders, red chest hair poking out from beneath the article.

Dipper wished  _this guy_ wasn't the first customer but could see Stan shooting a wolfish smile at him, as if daring him to attempt to make a sale to the brute of a man. His hands clenched into fists, the determination returning, but before Dipper could say anything, a strong arm was shooting out to grasp a shirt from the table, pulling it up to his face for a close inspection.

" **This fabric is WEAK**!" he thundered, gripping it tighter.

Flinching, the force of his voice alone was enough to make Dipper's heart lurch into his throat in terror. He couldn't be a scared kid about this, though; he had to show Stan he was able to make a sale, even if said sale would be to this… beast.

"It's not…  _that_ weak, it's just lacking in strength," he laughed nervously, rocking back and forth on his heels with his hands wringing behind his back. Lying was something he'd never excelled at, and this wasn't going exactly as planned, but he could hope… "Want to buy it, man?"

" **It WEAK like tiny child!"** he bellowed.

Dipper forced himself to smile, willing it not to falter right now. "So… is that a yes?" A stretch.

" **NO!"**  Teeth bared, the brute of the man pulled the shirt between his hands, tearing it in half with a loud  _RIP_  without showing even a hint of strain in the motion.

Horrified by the sudden show of strength, he looked to Stan in alarm but was met with the same smirk and no assistance. His pupils were mere pinpricks as they settled back on the enormous man, and he raised his hand with his index finger out, "Hey, I… I think you'll have to pay for that now…" he said tentatively, trying hard not to cower.

 **"I will pay for YOUR FUNERAL ARRANGEMENTS, LITTLE MAN!"**  Reaching out to grab Dipper by the collar of his shirt, he was easily lifted into the air with Dipper's legs kicking uselessly as he spewed apologies, voice an octave higher than normal out of fear.

The grip on the front of his shirt as he flailed in desperation reminded Dipper of his father's worst drunken nights.

**"I WILL DRIVE MY AXE IN YOUR SKULL AND YELL 'TIMBER' AS YOU FALL TO THE EARTH!"**

"Now, now," Stan's voice was like the call of angels, sweet and smooth and it would have infuriated Dipper if he hadn't been too scared to think of anything else aside from how he was probably going to die right this second. "There's no need to smash anyone's brains in, Dan. The kid just didn't know better, and he sure as hell won't be trying to sell you anything weak again. You'll get only the manliest of merchandise! Like… these soldier figurines!" He whipped one out of his sleeves to show the brute. "As fierce and manly as the real deal! …Or whatever."

 **"HOW MUCH?"**  Manly Dan released Dipper, letting him fall to the ground in a heap of pathetic sadness, in order to grab the figurine.

Dazed from the impact and the most terrifying ten seconds of his life, Dipper slowly regained his bearings to scramble away from Manly Dan in a panic, shielding himself behind the Mystery Stand's table once again. Clutching his chest, it heaved as he recovered from the encounter.

"For you," Stan responded slyly, "only fifteen cents."

Manly Dan dropped three nickels into Stan's outstretched palm and lumbered off, leaving Stan to stare at where Dipper was hiding. "You done tryna play salesman, kiddo?"

Still hyperventilating, he was beyond the point of pride and nodded. Scouting out the competition sounded significantly safer than hanging around here to engage with customers if they were anything like Manly Dan.

"Then get your ass to work, and come back with some breakfast!" Stan tossed him the nickels — although he managed to catch two, the other hit him in the cheek, and he was forced to pick it up off the ground.

There was no point in protesting when he'd botched his attempt to demonstrate his nonexistent prowess in sales, so he defeatedly walked away from the Mystery Stand to visit some of the other vendors. Behind him, he could hear Stan and Mabel calling out to anyone who walked by in an attempt to generate interest in their wares. He blocked it out to focus on the assigned task, pausing at a few tables to see what was being sold and how much it was going for before moving on to the next one.

Navigating through the crowd of people, he caught sight of someone familiar and brightened instantly, recognizing Wendy. Intent on snagging her attention amongst the busyness of the marketplace, Dipper didn't notice the other teens. Without thinking about it, he started toward Wendy to amiably call "hey!" and wave. He knew that stupid grin was probably on his face, the one that settled there whenever he talked to her that he couldn't seem to wipe off his face.

To his relief, she seemed to hear him over the sound of shoppers. "Hey Dipper! Nice hat!" Wendy waved back when she saw him approach. "Guys, this is Dipper. He works at the M-Shack too. He's cool."

Wendy's introduction made him realize his tunnel vision's mistake, and Dipper's gaze swept to the other teenagers surrounding her, giving a shier wave to them as well in greeting. He remembered seeing this group a few times, as they were the friends that picked her up every day for lunch, but they'd never interacted before. One of her companions, a guy with dark hair and pale skin (was he a vampire?) scowled at this. "Not cool enough to tag the front window of Greasy's Diner."

"You wrote 'Your food sucks.' That's kinda lame."

Another one of Wendy's friends, a tall blonde male, laughed and elbowed the vampire-friend enough to make him stumble a bit. "Yeah, man,  _you're_ lame!"

"Anyway, Dipper. This is Robbie, Lee, Nate, Tambry, and Thompson," she beckoned to each one respectively, eliciting several 'hey!'s back in response. Tambry didn't even glance up from her book, and he was fairly sure Robbie the Vampire was pretending he didn't exist.

It was good to finally meet them, but it left him in a place of not knowing what to say despite yearning for their social approval. If he wanted even a sliver of a chance with Wendy, he was convinced he'd need to impress her friends. "Wendy is constantly telling me about you guys," Dipper said, then quickly regretted it, wishing he'd thought of something more clever. "Well, not  _constantly_ , we talk about other stuff too, but…"

"Like how gay Thompson is?" Lee joked.

"Come on guys, I'm not gay!" Thompson's voice cracked in protest, looking like a sad puppy.

"The only one coming on guys is you, Thompson!" Nate added, jumping in to the teasing.

Thompson let out a whiny noise, the corners of his lips twitching downwards further. "That's not what I meant!"

"That's not what you said last night to Robbie!"

Robbie bristled, stepping close to Wendy. "I'm not gay and you know it! I'm with Wendy." He glanced at her affectionately, an over-the-top gesture to prove a point.

Dipper's heart sunk at the words when it processed, feeling like his stomach dropped so far that it fell straight out of his body. He hadn't recalled Wendy ever talking about a boyfriend before, but the phrase 'with Wendy' heavily implied there was a budding romance between them, much to Dipper's dismay.

"Ooh, so a threeway?"

"You're just jealous you're not getting anything from Lee!"

"Aha! You didn't deny it!"

Hardly listening to the conversation, his attention was stuck on Wendy. And Robbie. Robbie and Wendy, together. Steadies, probably. Wendy and Robbie, the couple. It kept running through his head, over and over, haunting and mocking him.

Although Wendy had disclosed that she was a few years older than him, he still had entertained the thought of a relationship possibility since they were good together. There was never a dull moment in their conversations at work, even though the work itself was boring, and at the end of shifts he was disappointed to see her go.

He knew it was nothing more than a silly crush that wouldn't have amounted to anything, but she wasn't mean to him and didn't make fun of him like others did. It felt like Wendy understood, a certain trust between them that he wasn't accustomed to sharing with anyone except Mabel.

Unsure of how long had passed, Dipper snapped out of his thoughts to the sound of Robbie angrily yelling and storming off, his face red and his hands stuffed deeply into his pockets. He was hunched over and fuming, stalking away from the rest of the group to disappear into the crowd of marketplace shoppers. Nate and Lee followed after him, using variations of "really, dude?" and "it was just a joke!" while Tambry idly trailed along, not looking up from her book. Thompson seemed to notice them leaving and rushed to catch up, "Wait for me!"

That left Dipper with Wendy, and he asked, "What's gotten into him?"

She shrugged lightly. "He gets mad sometimes when their teasing gets relentless. He'll be fine." Wendy paused, looking him over and sending a pinch of self-consciousness through Dipper. "What were you thinking about? You got a little spacy on us."

There was no way he was going to tell Wendy the truth, that he was distraught over her relationship status, how he was mourning the fact she was taken, and kicking himself for not acting sooner. "Oh! Uh," he coughed, struggling to think of something plausible, "I was remembering something that happened earlier…" The encounter with Manly Dan came to mind, and he latched onto it, realizing that was the perfect escape. "See, this  _huge_ guy came to the Mystery Stand, and… he started acting all crazy, yelling about how the fabric of the shirts was weak. He tore one in half and when I said he'd have to pay for it, he…" this was the part of the story that made Dipper look a bit wimpy in his opinion, but he continued, "literally picked me up and threatened to break my skull with an axe. And he was going to yell 'timber' as I fell to the earth, or something." He tried to play it off as if he hadn't been afraid for his life, that he'd been able to handle it calmly, but his voice betrayed him.

To his surprise, Wendy laughed, not in a rude way, but seemingly amused by the story. "Sounds like you met my dad!"

Dipper choked on his own spit. " _That_ was your dad?!" It took a moment to register, but he guessed they did share physical similarities beyond the color of their hair. Their features were the same shape, their eyes the same shade.

"Yup!"

As long as Manly Dan was around, maybe it was a good thing he wasn't dating Wendy. "Well, I'm pretty sure he wants to murder me gruesomely with his axe," he said, scratching the back of his neck.

"He's a big softy on the inside, but you probably irritated him by trying to sell him Stan's cheap merchandise. Nothing would've happened." She grinned. "Hey, do you wanna get a soda? I think the gang bailed like the lameos they are."

"Sure," he brightened, returning the grin. "Lead the way."

* * *

"Fiddleford, status report," Ford demanded as he paced the expanse of the laboratory, hands clasped behind his back and his coattails fluttering from his urgent gait. His head was pounding from the stress of work since fixing the portal had been a disaster thus far, and it didn't help that he was operating on very few hours of sleep, so tensions were high in the Mystery Shack basement as his patience grew thinner.

Upon receiving no response, he paused to peer to his assistant who seemed to be writing furiously, scribbling something down as if he hadn't even heard the request. An irritable sigh fell from his lips, and he snapped, "Earth to Fiddleford McGucket!"

"Wha?" Fiddleford jumped at the sternness of Ford's voice, the sudden movement spilling his mug of coffee. "Oh, horsefeathers!"

Sharply inhaling as he saw the mess of dark liquid spill onto one of their control panels, he rushed to the machine to inspect the damage but feared it was already too late. "Don't just stand there, get something to clean it up!" Ford yelled, frustratedly wishing his assistant could do something right just for  _once_ in the heat of the moment. Time was of the essence, perhaps if they could power it down before it reached the wiring…

Fiddleford scrambled to get up, the black fluid dripping onto the white of his lab coat. With no towels or clothes in their lab, he was forced to attempt soaking up what he could with his uniform jacket.

"What on earth are you  _doing_?!" he asked in exasperation as he watched him try to soak it up with… his lab coat.

A  _lab coat_!

But he didn't wait to find out why, too busy attempting to power down the panel before it could short-circuit.

"There ain't any towels down here!" Fiddleford exclaimed. "This here's the best we got – it'll take too long to get up'n the elevator and stairs and back." While his logic may have been sound, it remained that the lab coat was doing a terrible job of clearing away the spilled coffee. Meanwhile, Fiddleford was panicking, using the thin sheet of fabric to pull much of the coffee onto the floor.

Ignoring the burning, sticky substance now coating his hands and clothes, he was able to pull the switch that'd begin to shut down the electricity leading to the panel, but his worst fears were confirmed when a zapping noise came from within the metal. The panel's lights flickered and went out, leaving Ford with the realization their work over the past few days had gone entirely to square one in a matter of seconds.

"Absolutely unacceptable," he muttered, feeling defeated as he wondered how many times they would have to rebuild the components of the portal before they'd have it working finally. Between Bill's destructive behavior, Stan's reckless fighting, and now Fiddleford's  _stupidity_... He turned around slowly to face Fiddleford, hostility in his gaze when it settled on the other, but his voice was unwavering and cold. He had to stay collected, couldn't break down... "Fiddleford, I am unbelievably disappointed in you."

Perhaps if he'd been thinking straight, he wouldn't have been so harsh toward his friend, but all he saw was work down the drain through eyes with deep bags under them. Every inch of him felt exhausted.

"I-I'm sorry," Fiddleford apologized. Much of his outfit was ruined by the attempt to clean the spill, leaving his clothes brown, wet, and reeking of coffee. "I didn't mean to knock it over, I swear!"

"When I hired you to be my assistant, it was because I expected better of you." Although he knew it was an accident, it was still more work added — work they should've only had to do once, not four times over after several incidents. "You've rendered our time wasted."

The scrawny figure of Fiddleford tensed. " _I've_  rendered our time wasted? Yer the one who broke the machine to begin with! With yer foolish, childish fight with Stanley! If you'd just grow up a lil', we wouldn't have had to fix it again."

Taken aback by the response, Ford's eyes narrowed contentiously. He thought back to the fight and recognized that it  _was_ a huge setback since it'd dismantled the portal, but it wasn't as if he had been directly responsible. "Stanley attacked  _me_ ," he reminded Fiddleford, "and as it seems you've forgotten, I tried to diffuse the situation multiple times." He'd been a victim of Stan's impulsiveness.

" _Conversely_ ," Ford motioned to the mess of the control panel, the buttons still dripping with coffee, "this was nothing but a result of your lack of attention and clumsiness, followed by an inability to determine an appropriate response under pressure." Again, it was brutal to be speaking this way to a childhood friend and partner, but he was at his wit's end with everyone hindering his research without a second of hesitance. It would take weeks to repair the damage, maybe months — if it could be done at all, Ford thought miserably.

"Stanley only attacked you because he's been fed up with yer behavior. And honestly, it's gettin' right hard to blame him when you've gotten in the habit of blaming everyone else for yer problems. If you'd just not be a prick for once, none of this would've happened!"

Anger welled within him at the accusation, and he snarled, " _My_ behavior? I've been strictly professional and polite, and it's been met with incredible disregard for my work." He'd asked Bill to refrain from taking things without receiving prior permission, and Stan to stay out of the basement. Where he'd gone wrong with either of those, he hadn't the slightest clue but didn't think he was deserving of such disrespect over simple requests.

"You throw everyone's mistakes in their faces! That's not bein' polite  _or_  professional, Stanford!"

"What were you hoping for? A kiss on the cheek?" Ford's words were venomous, a warning that Fiddleford was treading into dangerous territory. "I'm not going to reward you for destroying the control panel." It'd be ridiculous to believe he'd be fine with this; it was his career, his hard work, all thrown away over an easily-avoided mistake.

"I were hoping you'd grow on up fer a change and forgive others for their mistakemajigs! All you've done these past few years is hold grudges and harassin' others, and I'm gettin' sick of it! All of this," Fiddleford beckoned to where the pieces of the portal laid, "could've been avoided if you just learned to get over yerself."

"If you are referring to Stanley's 'mistake', I'd rather not hear it. You don't know him like I do and therefore lack the authority to preach to me about it." Ford remained convinced Stan sabotaged his project intentionally, especially when he'd expressed disappointment in his plans to go to West Coast Tech. And if he had accidentally broken it, there was no excuse for not telling him of the damage so he could take the proper steps in fixing it before the recruiters had arrived. Maybe it wasn't done with malicious intent, but it'd still affected his future.

But that wasn't what this conversation was about, apparently. According to Fiddleford, he needed to get over himself, and the mere notion made his stomach churn since it suggested Fiddleford actually saw him as a childish brat that wasn't over an incident that happened seven years ago. That wasn't the case; he'd been working hard to prove he had moved on to make something of himself, building a respectable career in the field.

However, it just so happened that individuals from his past continued to hinder him in his new endeavors, and Fiddleford had the guts to defend them to his face. Ford felt betrayed by the lack of support and loyalty, his closest confidant choosing to turn against him. To tell him he was in the wrong, that it was his fault.

If he couldn't trust Fiddleford, he figured he couldn't be with him — professionally or romantically anymore. "You are free to leave, Fiddleford." His statement was emotionless and detached, sounding more drained than sad. "And I am referring to the Mystery Shack." It was unfortunate that being fired was also the dissolution of their relationship, not that it felt like a relationship to begin with.

"Fine, I'll go!" Fiddleford stepped away from the destroyed control panel and Ford, his shoulders dropping in defeat. "I'm tired of working for you anywho. All you've done is be a jerk who only gave a flyin' hogpoodle about yer 'work' and 'experiments'. You never even bothered to do anythin' romantic with me, and I was supposed to be yer  _boyfriend_ , or did you forget that when you was having that lover's quarrel with Stanley the other day?" He spat at Ford's feet, his saliva striking his shoes, leading him to take a disgusted step back.

Ford's face went red, but he wasn't sure if it was from fury or embarrassment at the implication or a combination of both. Fiddleford was aware of their extensive  _history_ , partly because he'd been there as the third member of their friend group during their childhood and teenage years, but also because Stan wouldn't stop talking about it. "Collect your belongings and leave."

With that, he strode past Fiddleford to go to the basement elevator, not sparing him another glance even when he could hear Fiddleford call "I'll be darned happy to!" after him. "I hope yer experiments are worth losing everyone who gave a dang about ya!"

Eyes trained forward, he didn't stop until he reached the kitchen table, slamming a bottle of Stan's whiskey onto the wooden surface — it wasn't much of a secret that his brother kept alcohol stashed around the Mystery Shack in various locations. Ford harbored suspicions that he sneaked a drink or two while working the tours, but he couldn't blame him despite his usual distaste for the substance. The intelligence (or lack thereof) of the Gravity Falls townsfolk would make the most clean man want to chug a bottle or two.

As he poured the whiskey into a glass, he reflected on how he couldn't even recall the last time he'd had an alcoholic beverage; it simply wasn't something he craved or cared about, preferring to keep his wits about him. The taste was never particularly appealing, either. But this… this was a special occasion, a rarity, and it created a unique set of circumstances under which Ford couldn't think of anything better to do for the next couple hours except feel sorry for himself with this whiskey to keep him company since Fiddleford wasn't an option anymore.

A ripple of sadness washed over him despite his attempts to remain unemotional, and he fought against the growing urge to break down and sob. Being objective about this was impossible. He hadn't wanted his friendship with Fiddleford to crumble like this — the conclusion of the romantic aspect of their relationship was a tragedy, but not what he was upset about. He was losing a friend he'd had throughout his childhood, someone who'd been there for him when Stan wasn't. Unlike his brother, Fiddleford had understood Ford's pursuit of academics and didn't make fun of him for it, actually aiming to be supportive.

Now, Fiddleford was walking out of his life, probably out of Gravity Falls as well since he had no reason to stay. He supposed it was the logical sequence of events when their interactions leading up to that moment had been increasingly strained, but made it no less painful, and that was enough to coax Ford into bringing the glass to his lips, downing the first few swallows while ignoring the burn in the back of his throat.

* * *

Without Dipper around to turn potential sales into awkward disasters, things had gone smoothly. The folks of Gravity Falls were stopping by and snatching up the items like hotcakes, and the only indicator of how much time had passed was the sun shifting to hover directly over them.

It didn't take long for them to receive new customers, and Mabel was bouncing at the opportunity to sell the approaching males some 'fine' crafts. Stan had been 'stan'dling most of the transactions, and she was eager to do more than just stand around and look pretty.

As they neared the Mystery Stand, Mabel got a better look at them. One was quite tall and lanky while the other was short and slightly chubby, it seemed the only similarity they shared was that they both were overly dressed for the occasion in formal attire. The tall male boasted a patterned, yellow business vest with a black bowtie (it had yellow stars on it, Mabel adored the decoration), sleeves, and slacks, and the slightest splash of white where his vest veered off to expose his dress shirt.

He was blonde, though part of his hair was concealed by a top hat, and one eye was covered by a triangular eyepatch. His visible eye was dark in color, and it could have merely been the shade of his hat casting a strange light on it, but she could swear the whites had a yellow tinge. It was probably because the rest of him was, though. To Mabel, he looked like Abraham Lincoln, tall with a top hat, crossed with a bumblebee.

The short and pudgy male was another story. His entire outfit was baby blue, save for what appeared to be a black dress shirt beneath his jacket, a tiny white tie, and a pin of the American flag. His hair was white and poofy, like a cloud, and Mabel wondered if it'd be as soft as one.

They were certainly a pair to behold. The height difference was astonishing, and they looked at least a couple years apart in age too.

"Well, well, Stanley Pines, my good friend and 'formidable' business rival!" the short one greeted in what sounded like mock endearment, clasping his baby hands together. "Fancy seein' you here."

"Gideon," Stan's scornful voice rang out, palms coming down hard on the surface of the Mystery Stand's table. "Shouldn't you be off doing idiotic psychic stuff, or do you only do that when your daddy's around to hold your hand?"

Chuckling quietly, Gideon closed his eyes and shook his head, "Tsk tsk, Stanley, control yourself. That's no way to greet a pal."

"Hiya, Stan!" said the taller one, gaze sweeping over the pile of junk on the table. "Hoho, who're we scamming today?" While he had been about to say more, Mabel interrupted him by placing a shooting star sticker on his nose. In her defense, the star-pattern matched his bowtie.

"Surprise, you've been stanned!" Mabel cut in with a wide grin, thinking her poor attempt of a pun was a hoot. Spending time at the market with Stan had been a blast despite not participating much with the sales, and she liked trying to twist 'scammed' into 'stanned.' She thought it – and the rest of her Stan related puns – were quite creative. "That'll be five cents. Pay up, sucker!"

She could hear Stan laugh, and she felt him slap her on the back lightly. "That's my girl!"

Seemingly noticing her for the first time, Gideon's eyes lit up, appearing dazzled by the display. "Oh my," he gasped dreamily, "to who do I owe such a delightful acquaintance?"

Before Mabel could respond, the tall one wrinkled his nose in mild disdain. "Ah, a little shooting star has been spending too much time with Stan I see." He plucked the sticker off his nose, flicking it onto the table. "Make all the demands you want, but you won't be getting a penny from me."

"I'm Mabel!" She introduced herself to Gideon. "Your hair looks soft. Are you sure it's not a cloud that landed on your head?"

Gideon giggled at the question, flattered. "Why thank you! I do try to keep my hair in peak condition." He leaned closer with lidded eyes, elbow on the stand table. "While I'm certain it isn't a cloud, I'm not so convinced you aren't an angel that fell from the sky."

Given his small stature, Mabel was amazed he was able to get his elbow on the table but soon became distracted by his compliment. She faintly went red and fanned herself. "I guess I must look pretty beat up then, if I fell all the way down here."

"Beauty and a sense of humor, how enchanting!" Gideon commented to himself in a whisper, looking awestruck by her.

"Okay, this is gross," Stan muttered.

The tall male laughed, an eyebrow hitching in interest. "Nowhere near as gross as how you look at Brainiac."

"That's different!" Stan scowled at the blonde, though Mabel could tell it wasn't serious. "What brings you here anyway, Bill?"

"Oh, y'know." Bill crossed his arms, leaning against the support beam of the Mystery Stand's sign. "Just checking out the goods while the market's open. Figured I'd see you around since there's no way you'd pass up an opportunity to make a couple bucks off these people's collective stupidity."

Stan shrugged. "What can I say? They make it easier than stealing candy from a baby."

"Say, when will we be hitting the town?" Bill inquired, a certain slyness to his voice. "I've been missing my favorite drinking and race buddy."

"You're always missing me," Stan laughed. "Can't go a few days without you wanting to hang."

Something a bit dark flickered in the depths of Bill's eye for just a second, and Stan continued, "But look, the next race is scheduled in a few weeks, so if you want to go out sooner we can probably arrange something." There was a slight pause. "I've been missin' ya around the Shack, Bill. It hasn't been the same with the Nerd Crew about."

"A couple of nerds are giving you a hard time?" Bill teased.

Stan grumped. "You have no idea! I got in a fight with Ford—"

"All that pent up sexual tension finally snapped, huh?"

"And we accidentally crashed into their stupid portal," he ignored his comment, "and the fucking thing broke and somehow it's all MY fault?"

"Oh, did he ban you from the basement too? Welcome to the club, buddy!"

Mabel was at a loss, unsure of what was going on in the discussion. Everyone but her was in the loop, and it wasn't helping that the new boy kept staring at her. At least he was cute.

"So Mabel," Gideon began, never taking his eyes off of hers but reaching for her hand, "are you new to Gravity Falls? I don't believe I've seen your pretty face here before, and I know I would've remembered."

"Yep!" Was it really that obvious? She couldn't wrap her mind around how tiny Gravity Falls really was. It seemed ridiculously tight-knit.

"Ooh, pardon my rudeness and allow me to formally introduce myself, then! I'm Gideon Gleeful, a real psychic — nothing like this fraud Stanley Pines here." He giggled, catching the dirty look Stan shot him. "I'm just playin', Stanley. But as I was sayin', I make appearances on television, and—"

"Hey Pentagram," the sound of Bill's fingers snapping stole Gideon and Mabel's attention. "If you're gonna ask Shooting Star out, just do it. I've got places to be."

Confused, Mabel realized the nickname Shooting Star was referring to her, but then it clicked: the star sticker she'd poked his nose with… and unsuccessfully tried to make a sale off of.

"In that case, please excuse how forward this is, but…" Gideon blushed, smiling shyly. "Mabel, would you give me the honor of taking you on a date?"

"I'd be delighted!" Mabel squealed. Her first date? She never thought she'd see the day!

"Wonderful! I'll be by the Mystery Shack tomorrow evening to pick you up. Perhaps Bill would be so kind to chauffeur us?"

"Gideon," the amused Bill addressed him. "Is it really picking the lady up if you have to run to me to do it?"

Gideon answered him with a huffy glance as if to say, 'not in front of my date!' but Mabel couldn't think about anything aside from how darn  _adorable_ he was.

Mabel giggled. "You're funny. I'll see you two then!" She couldn't believe her luck — a cute boy and a date just by attending this dumb market thing!

With the date set up and the goodbyes made, Mabel watched as Gideon and Bill departed from the stand. "Stan!" She squealed once they were out of sight, releasing the pent up energy by jumping up and down like an excited puppy. "Omygosh, did you hear that? I got a DATE! With a real boy! ...I think he's a boy." It didn't make a difference to her, really. A date was a date. "I have to talk to Dipper like, NOW!"

"Uh, okay sweetie." He seemed slightly startled by her enthusiasm. "You do whatever you gotta do, I'll be here if ya need me."

Still squealing with excitement, Mabel dashed away from the Mystery Stand in search of her brother. It took dodging through the crowd to steal a glimpse of Dipper and Wendy together at a table. They were drinking Pitt Colas, and she watched as Dipper went from laughing at something Wendy said to choking on a pit. Nice.

"Dipper!" Mabel called as she neared them, waving her arms. "Ohmygosh, DIPPER! We need to talk!"

Hearing his name, Dipper's attention landed on her. "Uh, looks like I should go. I guess Mabel wants me," he said to Wendy, beginning to get up from the table. "This sounds like it could be important… the only other time I've seen her so excited was when the Beach Boys sent her an autographed letter."

Approaching her, he asked, "Are you okay? You look like you've downed twenty packets of Smile—"

She didn't even give him a chance to finish, shouting excitedly, "I GOT A DATE!" She was practically vibrating in place and felt like she could burst into rainbow-colored confetti at any second from how happy she was.

Dipper appeared perplexed at first, perhaps by the force of her announcement, but then smiled. "That's great! ...A little soon, but great! Who is your date with?"

"His name is Gideon, and he's a bit short, but he has the cloudiest of hair and he's sooo nice and he's picking me up tomorrow!" Or technically Bill was the one driving them but… whatever! The point was, she was going on a date!

"So the date's tomorrow? I can't wait to meet him," Dipper said, tilting his head. "He sounds…. really interesting."

"I think you'll like him," Mabel excitedly told him. "Or you'll at least like standing next to him because he'll make you look tall."

Dipper's expression fell flat, but the smile returned after a moment as he laughed softly. "Come on, Mabel, I'm not that short."

"That's exactly what a short person would say!" Mabel said gleefully, finding entertainment in Dipper's insistence that he wasn't short. Unable to stop herself, she asked, "Hey Dipper, do  _you_ have any Gravity Falls crushes yet? Tell me all the juicy details!"

"I don't exactly  _have_ …" he trailed off, blushing and averting his eyes.

"So you DO have a crush. Come on, Dipper! You can tell me ANYTHING!" Clutching Dipper's shoulders, her eyes got wide as they bore into his. " _Anything_."

"I know, I know," Dipper replied quickly, "just... you can't tell anybody else, okay? It's kind of embarrassing." She was glad he seemed to cave faster than usual; she always could sniff out when Dipper had a crush, and he wasn't good at claiming he didn't have one. Her brother looked over his shoulder for a second as if making sure nobody was around, cheeks getting even brighter. "I have a crush on… Wendy," quickly, he added, "but I swear it's no big deal!"

The confession brought a thrill through Mabel. "WENDY?" Her squeal was loud, unrestrained. "You have a crush on Wendy? That's soo cute! You should tell her!" Maybe she liked him back, and then they could both have dates! Happy ending!

"Shh!" Dipper hushed her, glancing over his shoulder again. "I'm not going to tell her! She already has a steady, and… I don't even think she'd be into me like that."

She didn't care if Wendy had a steady, Dipper could replace whoever it was and be her new and improved steady. "You don't know unless you try!"

"No way, Mabel! I don't want her to think I'm weird and stop talking to me. We haven't even known each other a full week!"

"Everyone thinks you're weird and we still talk to you, it's okay!"

The look on his face said it wasn't the confidence boost he was hoping for, and his words reflected it, "That's not reassuring at all."

She pressed. "Go for it! Nothing bad'll happen from confessing your love of Wendy to her face!"

"I'm not in love with her!" The way Dipper's face was growing more red led Mabel to think otherwise. "It's just… a little crush. It'll go away, and I don't want her steady to beat me up. He's kind of scary."

Ignoring his protests, Mabel began to sing: "Dipper and Wendy, sittin' in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G! First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby ca—!"

A hand was slapped over her mouth while an expression of horror sat on Dipper's features. "Shhh! Be quiet, Mabel!"

The best way to get one's hand off her mouth was to lick it, and she did so without another thought, causing him to pull it back. "Salty!"

"Ew! Gross." Examining his now-wet hand, Dipper dried it off on his pants. Sighing, he asked, "What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were helping Stan with the sales." There was a hint of bitterness in that, and she wondered if he was still upset over his flop of an attempt at selling a shirt.

"I wanted to tell you about my date!" Mabel was still excited about it. What should she wear? She liked her shooting star shirt, but there was also the one with cupcakes… "Why were you hanging out with Wendy? I thought Stan wanted you to get breakfast and scope out the competition."

"I did look at the competition! But then Wendy and her friends came by and I," he paused, scratching the back of his neck, "got distracted. I was taking a break to talk to her, it would've been rude not to."

She didn't want his drawn out, slightly-guilty-sounding explanation. She just wanted food. "So you get to drink soda while everyone else  _starves_?"

Dipper appeared even more sheepish. "I was going to pick up the oranges in a couple minutes, but then you started yelling for me…"

"By a couple minutes, you mean another hour and a half with Wendy." She was a little irritated with how sidetracked he'd become from his work when she and Stan had been working their butts off at the stand.

"I–"

Mabel grabbed his hand, pulling him toward one of the fruit vendors. "Come on! I'm so hungry I could eat a Soos!"

* * *

"Alright kids, we're packin' it up!" Stan announced since the day was winding down as the afternoon shifted into the early evening. After enjoying a fruity breakfast of apples and oranges and a lunch composed of only ice cream, Stan had sent Dipper back to scouting out the competition. The boy was useless otherwise, and it seemed like even spying wasn't going well with how often he gazed longingly at Wendy.

Whenever he'd come by the Mystery Stand, Dipper would sigh sadly and occasionally ask questions about her, all of which were met with the same response from Stan: "ask her yourself, kid." And then he'd be shoved back into the crowd in what he hoped would encourage the teen to actually do his job rather than pine after Wendy.

Stan had enough to deal with now that Mabel had a date. She'd spent the last several hours bouncing around like a raccoon on cocaine, frequently asking him about what she should wear, and if she should style her hair, and if she needed makeup. How the fuck should he know? He wasn't fashionable like Bill. He liked things  _practical_ , not spectacularly dapper.

Besides, he didn't even  _like_ her date as a human being. He was conniving, a thorn in his side — but for Mabel's sake, he wasn't going to bring down her mood just because he had a personal grudge against Gideon.

That fat baby blue potato.

He wasn't even cute. Not like Ford, but he tried to brush those thoughts away as he, Mabel, and Dipper cleared away what was left on the table into the box and transported it into the El Diablo. He figured it could be sold another Sunday, or as a limited edition item in the gift shop. The suckers would buy anything shiny, and if they didn't buy it, he'd have Mabel throw on some more glitter. That would catch the attention of their pea-sized brains.

As they neared the vehicle, he could hear Mabel's claim of the passenger seat, and he reminded her, "You had it on the ride over here, sweetie. Give that nerdy brother of yours a chance."

"But Stan–!"

"Would you rather I throw you in the trunk?" Stan asked, not wanting to spend a half-hour arguing over who got shotgun. It seemed only fair to give it to Dipper this time. "I can move the merchandise in the back so there's room for you in there." That shut her up real quick, though her expression was of displeasure as she obediently entered the vehicle. "Good girl."

Although Dipper looked uncertain, he climbed into the passenger side as Stan got comfortable in the driver's seat. Sitting in the back, Mabel had her arms folded in a pout.

Starting the El Diablo, he wasted no time in throwing it in drive and hitting the gas. His vehicle shot forward like a beauty, kicking up dust in her wake.

Gradually, the sounds of the town square faded into the distance, leaving the buzzing marketplace behind them as they headed toward the secluded Mystery Shack. The road became rougher as denser trees and brush appeared to each side, a sign they were departing from the heart of the town and heading into the countryside.

In his rearview mirror, Stan could see a familiar gold Phoenix approaching and a mischievous grin settled on his lips, recognizing it as Bill's vehicle. He heard the horn blaring several times before the convertible changed into the left lane and increased its speed until they were side-by-side. A race proposition if he'd ever seen one.

Glancing over, he could see Gideon in the passenger seat—the little troll was probably snagging a ride home since he wasn't old enough to drive—and Bill on the driver's side, smirking back at him.

"What did you do, Stan?" Dipper seemed puzzled, anxiously wringing his hands together, and a panicked squeak escaped the kid as he saw how close the Phoenix had become. "Oh god, is… is this road rage? Are they trying to run us off the road?!"

While he could understand why that'd come to the mind of an inexperienced teenager—Bill was in the wrong lane and being in the path of oncoming traffic was a dangerous move for a simple race, it was still ridiculous. Road rage in Gravity Falls? Unheard of.

But street racing? Pretty acceptable and common, given the lack of law enforcement and excess stretches of country roads.

Stan laughed, keeping pace with the other vehicle for a few seconds to accept the silent, lingering challenge that Bill had extended. "Hell no! Didn't ya want to be in a race, kiddo?"

As expected, Bill's vehicle blasted forward after a short moment, and Stan hit the gas with the intent to beat his friend at his own game, their powerful engines roaring to life as they sped down the road. He knew there was nothing at stake here, except perhaps his pride in the El Diablo, but it was fun nonetheless.

Mabel peered at the Phoenix as they settled beside it again, managing to catch up, her eyes lighting up in recognition as she glimpsed the signature top hat of Bill. "Is Gideon in there?!" She asked, probably wondering if her knight in shining armor had come.

Although Dipper seemed less worried now that he had connected what was happening, he asked, "Um, do ...you know these people?" Stan's attention was trained on the road, focused, but in his peripherals he could see Dipper trying to get a better look at their competitor by leaning forward.

"Yeah," Stan confirmed Mabel's suspicions. "Your lil' potato troll is in there." So much for staying neutral on that to avoid souring Mabel's date. Oh well. To Dipper, he added: "This is Gravity Falls, kid. Everyone knows everyone. This 'everyone' just so happens to be a riot, the best pal a guy could have." Ford didn't know what he was talking about when he said Bill was horrible. The only terrible person in Gravity Falls was Ford, and that was mostly because of how unbearably childish he was. It'd been  _seven_  years, for money's sake!

Bill surging ahead dragged him from his thoughts, and he pushed the gas pedal down harder, giving it a bit of a nudge to overtake him while there was still time to do so — it was getting close to the final moments of the race with a car coming up in the other lane, zooming toward them. But he couldn't lose, not when he had the advantage of being in the right spot.

"I put a sticker on his nose and he refused to buy it!" Stan couldn't tell if she was upset or not over that. It was hard to when her only emotion was 'upbeat over date'.

" _Who_?" Dipper pressed, but there wasn't an opportunity to answer.

"  _Fuck!_ " Stan's foot slammed down on the brake, forcing the El Diablo to slow down in a matter of seconds to avoid hitting the new obstruction. At the last possible moment, Bill had cut in front of him to get out of the way of the oncoming vehicle – successfully overtaking him once and for all, winning their impromptu race. "Son of a bitch!" His hands came crashing down onto the steering wheel angrily, the horn bleating. Bill honked back, more than likely mocking him, before the Phoenix sped up again and vanished into the distance.

"Gideon's so  _dreamy_ ," Mabel murmured as she gazed after the Phoenix. "Did you see him, Dipper?"

Dipper appeared shaken from the experience and was grasping onto the dash, but he seemed to have had a good time from the dazed look in his eyes. "It, uh," he swallowed, collecting his thoughts, "happened pretty quickly, but… I think so? The one in the blue, right?"

"The  _gorgeous_  one in blue," she responded before her mushy daydreams about Gideon seemed to distract her. Yuck.

Stan glanced over at Dipper, noting how his pupils were pinpricks and his knuckles had drained of blood from his tight grip. "Ya need to relax over there, kid. Take a deep breath or two. That was nothin'."

Nervously, he ran a hand through his hair. "How fast were we even going? It felt like flying."

"Uh…" Stan hadn't been paying much attention to the speedometer, but he had a rough idea. "Over ninety, if I had to guess."

At that, he seemed to sink back into the cushion of the seat, mystified by what'd just occurred. "I.. I had no idea it'd be like that." A small laugh finally escaped him to Stan's relief, since he'd been concerned he'd traumatized the poor kid with the way he'd been fretting. "That was amazing."

"Your life must've been pretty dull if that's the case." Stan smirked smugly because when they got around to a real race, he knew it'd be much more intense.

As they drove further down the road, the outline of a parked vehicle could be seen on the side of the road and Stan perked up at the sight of it, amusement bubbling as they grew closer to the stranded car. He burst into laughter as they closed in, now able to verify the identity without a trace of a doubt. It was Bill's, and as he suspected, his precious Phoenix had overheated following their short race. "Take that, suckers!" Stan yelled out his window as he rolled it down and they passed.

"Do they need help?" Dipper inquired, staring out his window in concern at the two figures standing around the Phoenix. "Should we stop?"

"Nah, this happens all the time." Once it cooled off, they'd be good to go, but in the meantime, he could enjoy the thought of Gideon having a little toddler tantrum while Bill stood around frustratedly waiting for the damn thing to cool.

Score for the El Diablo, Stan arrogantly thought to himself. She could still hold her own at the drop of a hat, even against a monstrously souped up and expensive Phoenix.

Almost to the Mystery Shack, the rest of the ride was a toss up of conversations: Mabel once again gushing about her upcoming date, and now Dipper sounding just as giddy about participating in a real race, asking Stan a plethora of questions about the sport. They pulled into the dirt parking lot of the Shack and he killed the engine, telling the teens to haul the leftover merchandise from the trunk and bring it in to be sorted later.

As they left the vehicle and grabbed the boxes from the trunk, Stan was the first to the door that led to the foyer, connecting the kitchen and living room. He opened the door and took a step inside the frame, stopping in his tracks when confronted with the sight of Ford at the kitchen table. Flushed (had he been  _crying_?) and slightly intoxicated, with a bottle of whiskey— _his_ whiskey, that  _fucker_ —in his hand and an empty glass beside him. His eyes were glassy, he looked out of it. "Aw, shit." Turning around to face the approaching Dipper and Mabel, he blocked their way. "Kids! On second thought, drop your stuff on the porch then go play outside! I'll call you when dinner's ready."

"But aren't we supposed to be making dinner?" Dipper asked, blinking in confusion and not-so-subtly trying to see around him, the more curious of the two.

"Not tonight." Stan maneuvered to keep the kitchen out of Dipper's sight. He didn't need to see Ford in such a sorry state; hell, he wasn't even supposed to interact with Ford at all, that'd been part of the deal of staying here. "Now go explore the forest or somethin'. Maybe you'll find something interesting in there."

"I want pasta," Mabel told him. "Will we have pasta tonight?"

"Whatever you want, sweetie, as long as you go play in the woods."

Dipper frowned, hesitant. "You're actually kicking us out?"

"Yup!" Stan ushered them out and slammed the door behind them, sliding the lock to ensure they couldn't sneak back in.

With them out of the way, he turned back to the kitchen, to his brother who hadn't even seemed to notice his presence. He didn't know what the hell had happened while they were gone, but he had to deal with it on his own.

"What am I gonna do with you, Ford?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For clarification, Bill drives a '67 Firebird. We're sticking with the precedent the show set by calling it a Phoenix since in canon Stan drives a '65 El Diablo (DeVille.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stancest-heavy update. We're on vacation and a bit squeezed on time, so next week (7/6) won't have an update, sorry! Planning to resume as normal on 7/13.

Stan stared at his sorry excuse for a brother, unsure of how to proceed. Ford never drank, save for once but that was when they were kids screwing around. He knew his brother hated the taste of alcohol, shunned it like it was against his religion (he didn't even have one!), and seeing him buzzed was… mind blowing.

If he didn't know better, he'd assume Ford was trashed from the way his eyes were glazed and unfocused, his attention on something distant, while he wore an expression similar to that of a kicked puppy. With ruddy cheeks and puffy eyes, Stan recognized that he'd been crying most of the time, not spending the hours downing whiskey. Good riddance, the effect it had on Ford wasn't a positive one, and he didn't want to deal with him being more of an asshole. Crossing into the kitchen, Stan grabbed one of the kitchen chairs and dragged it over to the table, the wood screeching against the tile. He plopped down onto it, leaning forward with his elbow resting on the flat surface.

"You look like hell."

As if he hadn't realized Stan's presence prior to now, Ford's eyes snapped to his only to look away again like he was ashamed of this, getting caught in a moment of weakness. But who was he to judge? To claim he didn't indulge himself in alcohol a little too often would be a flat out lie.

When he didn't reply, he bit down a sigh. Ah, the silent treatment. He wasn't surprised by Ford's lack of response but was surely going to pull  _something_ out of the dopey nerd. "Ya alive there, Sixer? You need medical help or somethin'? 'Cause I ain't gettin' it for ya after you raided my stash." After a second of no reply, Stan jabbed him in his shoulder.

It worked—barely—since it elicited a pitiful moan from Ford, a strained noise of mourning. Over what, Stan had no idea. "I have a pulse, don't I?" he mumbled, and Stan wanted to roll his eyes. Very helpful. Leave it to Ford to be shutting him out in an obvious time of need, classic.

"I dunno," Stan said. "I haven't cut your chest open to find out." What did Ford want from him? He wasn't a doctor. He hardly knew what a pulse was. The most he recalled from school was something about the wrist and neck.

"No," Ford replied miserably, but it sounded more like a whine to Stan. "You 'lready told me you weren't going to get medical help, I'd bleed out." So he was slurring a little, just a hint, and was actually humoring him for a change—an indicator he'd been drinking, but was far from drunk. Maybe the effects were already wearing off, depending on when he'd started.

Stan couldn't help but laugh a little, thinking about what he'd said because even when drinking, he had to be an intellectual. "Yeah, can't have ya getting blood all over my damn tile."

The pained look Ford gave him was priceless, but heart-wrenching with how his expression wavered, lips twitching as he seemed to fight a frown.

"I'm just jestin', Sixer. I wouldn't kill ya even if it were easy." He loved him too much to kill him. Life without Ford wouldn't be worth living.

"You wouldn't?" Stan had a feeling it was a question, but it was closer to a statement, and he waited to see where he was going with this. "But… but I'm not—" his voice wavered like he was remembering something, "polite or professional…" Ford's breathing had picked up, hitching dangerously, and he wailed, " _And I throw everyone's mistakes in their faces_."

Yikes, who dismantled his 'mightier than thou' barrier? This was new, and he wasn't totally sure how to react to it. Treading carefully, Stan said, "Nah, I wouldn't kill ya. I just so happen to like ya lots, even when you're a crying mess on my table." What the hell had happened? It was like he was reciting a memory out loud. "I'm not polite or professional either, I dunno why it's an issue to ya."

"That's different," a definite whine this time, "nobody expects you to be." Well, that was a step in the right direction when he couldn't tell if Ford was insulting or complimenting him.

"They don't expect you to be either, darlin'." Using a term of endearment was playing a risky game, one he thought he  _might_ be able to get away with since Ford was intoxicated, his guard down. He stiffened and squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for the inevitable slap that would probably mark his cheek, but at least it would be more on par with normal Ford. A knee-jerk reaction would confirm he had his brother back.

When Ford defied his expectations and instead collapsed into his side, Stan's eyes flew open, utterly stunned by the turn of events. "Who are you and what did you do to Stanford Pines?" He was almost completely serious, wondering if this was some experiment gone awry.

That managed to draw a sad, pathetically small chuckle from him, but there was no trace of joy in the laugh. "Stanley, be serious." Ford never acted like this, and he was beginning to rethink his stance on getting medical attention, especially when he realized he could feel Ford's form trembling against him.

"I am serious," Stan said. "You're never like this. What the ever-loving  _fuck_ happened while I was gone?"

In a terrible attempt at providing an explanation, Ford reached out toward the half-empty bottle of whiskey and poked the glass as if indicating that he'd been drinking. How fucking stupid did he think he was?

Annoyed, Stan slapped his hand away from it. "You don't get to touch my booze, thief."

A huff escaped Ford. "Too late, and…  _you're_ a thief." The comeback of a lifetime, Stan mused.

"What, did I steal your heart all over again?" It'd been a few days since he had last asked, but since Ford seemed adamant on calling him a thief… well, he may as well try to steal something he actually wanted.

"Hardly," he mumbled with a brief nod toward the whiskey. "You won't even allow me to indulge myself."

It wasn't Stan's fault Ford defaulted to his stash. "Get your own booze if you wanna do that."

Sarcastically, he said, "Charming. Too cheap to buy alcohol for your date. I'm not surprised."

"You know it, handsome." Since his last term of endearment worked out (well, no reaction was better than a poor one), he boldly did it again. "We're dating again? God damn, I wish I'd known sooner so I could've bent you over this table.."

"No," Stan couldn't see, but he knew Ford was rolling his eyes. "I prefer those without an extensive criminal record."

Or so he claimed. "Just you wait, Sixer. You say that now, but I'll win back your affection."

It wasn't much, but he could hear Ford snort quietly. Progress. "Let me assure you, this conversation hasn't helped your case in the slightest."

Stan smirked, the corners of his lips curving up. "I don't believe that's true." Ford could deny that there was something between them, but Stan was unwilling to believe he was being honest with himself. As cliche as it was, they were puzzle pieces, fitting together so perfectly under every circumstance. Even now, he'd struck up a banter with a visibly-intoxicated and upset Ford, so how he couldn't see their chemistry was a mystery to him.

"Oh? Care to elaborate?" he asked, eyebrows knitting together. Stan recognized that look of concentration, but this wasn't some complex arithmetic problem that Ford could solve inside the confines of his mind.

"Come on, Sixer. You can't honestly say this discussion has killed your arousal for me." Stan's tone was light, though he sincerely thought Ford lusted for him and was just trying to conceal it. Maybe not 'lusted for him' in the sense that he was going to pounce on him right this second, but the idea surely had to cross his mind from time to time. Certainly had when they were horny teenagers, so why not now?

"Fiddleford broke up with me." It was blunt, rehearsed almost, and the sheer emotionlessness forced Stan into silence for a moment or two because it was just so damn robotic.

But then he couldn't help it. "Did he find out about our undying love for each other? I know you have the hots for me, Sixer."

Hurt flashed in the depths of Ford's eyes, quickly becoming unfocused like he was recalling something again. " _It wasn't a lover's quarrel_."

Oblivious, he teased, "No, that was just us the other day, wasn't it?" Wink.

Ford shuddered, his entire body convulsing for a second but Stan guessed if he was going to vomit, the table was a good place to since it'd be easy to clean afterward. He was just glad when nothing amounted from it.

Unfortunately, there went his confidence things would get better. "So .. Fidd's broke up with you. Did he step on your toes and make you snap or somethin'?"

Ford jumped into a protest, "I didn't  _snap_ , I was... "

"You snapped." Stan cut it off. He already knew.

"Yes."

"And instead of tryna make things better, you ran to my booze."

"I walked."

"I should break this bottle over your head for being a smartass." Mockingly, he had grabbed the bottle of whiskey and raised it over his head, as if he was going to bring it down on Ford.

"Too thick, it wouldn't damage anything."

Stan was relieved some humor had returned to his brother, and he dropped the bottle back onto the table. "I forgot it's a trap of steel," he said dryly.

Stan could feel Ford deflating into him further as he sighed, "Steely and stubborn."

"Everything about you is stubborn. It's rather attractive. Like when you were playin' hard to get back when we were teens..."

"Attractive?" he barked a wet laugh, and for the first time Stan noticed his eyes were misty. "I can safely say Fiddleford wouldn't agree, ...but I suppose we'll never know infallibly because I doubt he wants to see me ever again." Quieter, nearly inaudibly, he continued, "I don't blame him."

Stan scoffed. "Fiddleford wouldn't know hot from cold, Sixer. You two were so busy being nerdy together you missed out on the joys of physical attraction and intimacy. C'mon darlin', forget that cocksucker." Seriously. Stan already was.

Ford swallowed thickly, and he was pretty sure he could feel the hesitance radiating off of his brother. "I fear I was terrible to him." The candid confession was unexpected, enough to bring Stan's eyebrow to hitch.

"Not polite  _or_ professional?" Stan joked, hoping to lighten the mood, and he felt a twinge of satisfaction when he caught the  _tiniest_ hint of a smile on Ford's face.

Lacking conviction, Ford scolded him, "I told you to be serious."

"I was never good at listening." Given his educational history, all the relationships that crumbled… he was not the best listener. "You should know that already." He paused. "So. Fidd's gone after you snapped on him. Want to tell me more about it, or are ya just gonna keep staring at the wall like it's some sort of uh, alien life-form?"

That was all it took to convince Ford to look at him rather than the dumb wall. Good, it sure as hell took him long enough.

"What is there to tell?" he inquired, peering owlishly at him. His eyes were innocently doe-like and a little afraid, and it reminded him of their years before everything got so… complicated.

But still, Ford was dodging the question, so he put it bluntly, "What the fuck actually happened?"

"He spilled coffee over a control panel. It was completely ruined — months of work, and coupled with the portal's destruction…" he trailed off and shook his head. "It led to a fight."

"Ah, coffee. Science's one weakness!"

Blinking, the joke clearly missed its mark since he replied, "Quite the contrary. Caffeine has assisted in many late nights of astonishing productivity."

"Yeah, productively losing all your work." Maybe a touch too harsh since Ford shrank back like he'd been hit, but it was difficult to not point that out after his brother ruined his attempt at humor. "Sorry."

"This is my  _career_ , Stan, and I…" his voice quivered, "I am fumbling around like a dim-witted imbecile, not the supposed  _genius_ Stanford Pines."

It wasn't much of a career when Ford didn't even make a penny in profit, but Stan kept that to himself. "Alcohol does that to ya. In a bit, you'll be back to your ol' self."

A panicked look crossed Ford's face, and he grabbed for the whiskey, only to have Stan swat his hand away with a stern, "No."

"You said I looked like hell," Ford said after a bout of silence between them. "I  _feel_ like hell."

"Yeah, another shot isn't going to help." It'd just make him feel shittier, and they'd both had enough of that. "Look, I once tried to drink away my sorrows when Carla dumped me. I ended up on the side of a road bare-assed naked, with no idea where the hell I was, and I had to try to get someone to stop so I could hitch a ride to town."

"She came over later that night and you ended up engaging in coitus under my bunk bed," Ford bitterly reminded him.

"That's not the point. The point is, drinking doesn't help. It'll just fuck ya up even more, and we wouldn't want you to do anything stupid." Working himself to death, or trying to go after Fiddleford were two possibilities that came to mind. He didn't need that nerd, all he needed was Stan, and he would take care of Ford if that was what he wanted.

"Like sleep with Carla McCorkle?"

Maybe his quip had hit a bit of a nerve, and he vaguely recalled Ford never had liked Carla much. "At least I could get laid. You drove your boyfriend right out of town."

"At least I've  _had_ a steady in the past five years."

"Is it really a steady if you didn't do shit with it?"

Ford averted his gaze, taking a long pause before he explained, "We had a mutual interest in pursuing academic growth rather than a romantic relationship."

"Blah, blah, blah, mutual interest in not touching each other. That's called being a pal, Sixer, not a steady. You and I, we were steadies."

"And now we're pals." There was an edge to his tone, but not one he considered to be too serious. It was more like a yellow light, a warning to take this slow if he wanted to push the limit.

"Please," Stan's response was dismissive, "you know you want me. You're already gettin' all snuggly. You used to do this all the time, just before we started grinding, and you took off your pants…" Where was that slap he'd been expecting earlier? Now was the perfect time.

Ford shuffled away from him, settling back into his own seat before shooting him a sideways glance. Under his breath, Stan could hear him mutter about the whiskey or something equally stupid, as if that was a plausible reason for his behavior, probably unable to accept he desired physical affection.

"Playing hard to get again? It's just like the good old days." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, continuing in an attempt to elicit a reaction from Ford. "I wonder if you're as tight as you were then." Stan moved closer to Ford, wondering what the reception of his sexually-charged comment would be, however he didn't plan on acting out any of his desires tonight. If Ford and him were to do anything… he'd rather Ford be stable minded and doing this because he wanted it, not because the alcohol swayed his decision-making. If Ford caved, well, Stan would bottle the temptation to merely kiss his cheek and say 'goodnight'. Leaving him wanting like he did to Stan for years.

" _Stanley_ ," that mournful sound had returned, this time much less entertaining to listen to, "we're not doing this." Distress was etched into his expression, the look he got when he was fighting an internal battle with himself.

"Are ya sure, Sixer? It's not like you're taken anymore." Stan knew he was pressing his luck, perhaps going too far considering Ford endured a breakup only hours ago. He never claimed to be the smoothest romancer. "I can see you want me as much as I want you. Why are you fighting your desires?"

Ford melted into silence, looking at him again with those damn big eyes, as if soul-searching him. Waiting to see what he'd do — Stan determinedly decided he could wait this out, too. But he didn't care for being gawked at like one of his science experiments and wished Ford would say whatever he was going to say and get it over with.

After what felt like an eternity, though was likely no more than ten seconds, his resolve crumbled. His patience had worn thin, and he tried a different approach, something lighter, "I always loved fucking you when you gave me those big eyes of yours." He wasn't completely joking, fondly recalling the times Ford had given him those precious looks.

He could see Ford's throat working, eyes still searching him. "So… you're not serious." Stan couldn't decipher if it was relief or disappointment in his statement.

But it didn't matter, he'd already thrown caution to the wind. "Serious as a heart attack." Stan replied evenly. With all the risk he'd taken tonight, it seemed like it couldn't hurt their relationship by going even further. Ford was hardly reacting as it was, and Stan was growing increasingly more desperate. "I could never get you out of my head. I miss you, Ford. I miss everything about you… us, being together."

* * *

"What do you think that was about?" Dipper asked as they walked through the woods surrounding the Mystery Shack. The forest looked much different in the daytime than it had one particularly fateful rainy night, and he preferred this — the sun was setting as a cool evening approached, but there was plenty of light shining through the trees to light their path.

He hoped they wouldn't have trouble finding their way back, and he was careful to keep mental tabs on which direction the Shack was in at all times. It was hard to focus on that when he was already bombarded with questions about what'd caused Stan to kick them out so suddenly.

Stan hadn't told them how long they'd need to stay out here, just that he'd call whenever they were free to return.

Mabel shrugged helplessly as she kicked around a rock. "I dunno, I didn't get a good look!" It made sense, as she'd been behind Dipper when Stan attempted to block their views. "All I saw was someone's back. Looked kinda nerdy."

Dipper's expression fell flat. "That was me, Mabel."

"You need to play more football, Dipper. You're like if Einstein had a baby with a twig."

"I couldn't see much, but I think it was…" he paused, mind working to remember the name. "That other guy, Ford? Stan's brother. He was crumpled over the table." It'd looked… serious, especially with Stan's reaction, but kicking them out seemed extreme.

Mabel gasped. "Did he die? I knew they were older but I didn't think he'd have a croak!"

Increasingly distressed by the notion, Dipper said, "I don't know! I… wait, do you mean stroke?"

"Tomato, tamato." She shrugged. "If he's dead, does that mean we get to go to the basement?" Another gasp. "What if there's unicorns down there? Or more cute boys?"

"I doubt there are unicorns or cute boys." He dug his hands into his pockets, still internally fretting over the possibilities. "I just hope everything's okay, y'know?" Stan had been kind to them—kinder than most would've been—and although they hadn't interacted with Ford (as per his request), he probably didn't deserve misfortune either if he was anything like his brother.

Her expression became pouty. "I want unicorns! And rainbows! And more dates with cute boys! And puppies! Can we get a puppy, Dipper?"

"I don't think now is the best time to ask Stan for a puppy," he replied, assuming Stan had bigger issues to contend with at the moment.

"Is it a good time to ask him about dating advice?" she inquired. "I wonder where we'll go for our date… Ooh! Will Gideon kiss me? Should I pin him against a wall and kiss him? What should I wear? Or say? What if I say something stupid and he hates me! Or what if he doesn't like the makeup Stan got for me?! Omygosh, what if he asks me to marry him?"

Dipper hadn't been able to get a single word in, and Mabel seemed totally consumed by her own concerns anyway as if she didn't even expect a reply. But he still tried to be supportive. "Just be yourself," he encouraged gently, a smile playing upon his lips. "I'm sure he'll like you how you are! And as for the marriage thing, uh, how old  _is_ Gideon?" When he'd seen him earlier, he hadn't looked anywhere near the legal age to get married.

Mabel stopped in thought, her head tipping to a side. "I dunno! It's hard to tell when he's so short… our age, maybe younger?"

He didn't know how Mabel could be so ecstatic over a date when she seemingly knew nothing about said date, but perhaps she was more excited over the prospect of romance rather than who it was with.

His thoughts drifted back to what could've been happening in the Mystery Shack, trying to categorize them from most to least likely, not that he had a lot of theories to begin with. A noise of contemplation escaped him, and he wondered aloud, "Why do you think Stan doesn't want us talking to Ford?" Dipper recalled he'd been very clear about that during their first day on the job.

Mabel watched as her rock sailed into nearby bushes. "Maybe they had a fight? I still think they need to hug it out."

"It must've been a  _huge_ fight," Dipper said. "Stan hardly talks about him." In fact, he couldn't remember Stan saying anything about him at all, aside to stay away from him and the basement.

It was like they led lives completely separate from one another, and he couldn't imagine the same happening with him and Mabel. They were each other's greatest resource and closest companion, the best of friends.

"Stan might be more open to talking about him if they made up," she said. "I think they need to have some bonding together."

"Bonding?" he questioned.

"Yes! First, we tell them we need them to check something out, then we lock them in a closet!"

As much as Dipper liked the thought of Stan and Ford getting along, he wasn't sure if they should be meddling in their lives. "Maybe we should stay out of it. It's not our business, Mabel." A pause. "And I don't think we're strong enough for that."

She looked at him with an expression of confusion. "Why do we need to be strong? If they go in willingly, we can slam it behind them and lodge a chair beneath the knob!"

"You do realize they're not going to go in willingly, right?"

"It works in the movies!"

"Besides, we don't even know anything about Ford! I guess we met him once, but Stan might want us to steer clear for a reason." Other than his personal dislike of him, he amended internally. Stan's wishes aside, Dipper was curious about Ford, about their relationship — whatever was going on tonight just amplified it.

Mabel's eyes gleamed. "What if we spied on Ford!"

"Uh," he hesitated, uncertain. "That sounds a little…" Conniving, immoral. He couldn't think of a single positive word that would adequately describe  _spying_ on someone.

"Genius? I know! How else will we find anything out about him? Stan won't tell us!"

Dipper wanted to learn more about Ford, but he finally shook his head. Unless Stan changed his mind, they were going to be in the dark about this apparently mysterious brother and the implication of conflict. "Things must be really bad between them."

She didn't seem to have moved on from the spy-on-Ford concept, and the fact it came to her mind was still mildly concerning to Dipper. "Exactly!" Mabel said. "That's why spying on him is the  _perfect_  plan!"

Dipper glanced to Mabel, working up the courage to ask, "Do you… do you think we'll ever be like that?" The mere idea of being on less than speaking terms with his favorite person was unthinkable and frightening.

Her expression dropped at his question, becoming more serious. "We'll never be like them!"

At the reassurance, he relaxed. "I don't think we will either." With the stress they'd endured lately, running away from Piedmont together was seemingly the maker or breaker of their bond, and so far they were doing well.

"How could we?" she continued, now looking for another rock to kick around. "It's not like you'll be stealing any of my cute boys from me."

"Aw, come on," Dipper grinned, playfully nudging her. "Mabel, everyone loves you. I couldn't steal anybody from you, cute boy or not."

"I love me too!" She shot him a smile, but her attention was quickly diverted by the sound of other voices.

Alarmed, Dipper paused in his tracks, eyes scanning the forest for the source of the mysterious noise. There were small rustles, seemingly coming from every direction, and he glanced to Mabel, unsure of what to do.

"Did you hear that?" Mabel's voice had dropped to a whisper.

He didn't answer verbally, instead opting to nod his response — if there was someone out here with them, he wanted to be quiet and avoid giving away their position. It felt like his heart was in his throat as he continued to scour the woods, the undergrowth, everything, looking for a sign of life.

The Mystery Shack was a distance away, but they could be back in mere minutes if they sprinted. Dipper mentally noted which direction they'd have to take off in, just in case it—whatever was making the shuffling sounds—pursued.

"Helloooo?" Mabel called out. "Is someone there?"

Unconvinced it would be a harmless entity, Mabel's willingness to call out to it was startling. " _Mabel_ ," Dipper hissed under his breath, shaking his head to indicate that she shouldn't essentially ask the trouble to come to them.

She glanced at him in confusion. "What? I'm only trying to be friendly, Dipper!"

Tempted to tell her that now wasn't the time for friendliness, a voice halted his train of thought.

"Don't come any further!"

Confused, Dipper looked wildly for who had said that, only to realize it came from below and to his disbelief, there stood a gnome. He was sure his heart was going to burst right out of his chest — this wasn't possible, gnomes weren't  _real_. All he could do was stare in shock, entranced, at the tiny creature.

How was this happening? Did Mabel see it too, or was he hallucinating?

"Omygosh!" Mabel squealed. "You must be Gideon's brother! That's adorable!" That confirmed she saw it too, but did nothing to ease his racing mind, still trying to process this.

That seemed to make the gnome pause. "What? No! I'm not adorable, I'm dangerous!"

"Are… are you," Dipper gasped, clutching at his chest. Words were lost to a jumbled brain that was trying to sort through reality and fiction. "You're ...a gnome?!"

"Oh! I'm sorry, have you never seen a gnome before? I'm Jeff," the sound of more rustling brought Dipper to the realization that a couple other gnomes had emerged from the bushes, "and the fellas that are surrounding you are Steve, Jason, Carson, and uh, I'm sorry, what's your name?"

"Shmebulock."

"Ah yes, Shmebulock!" Lightly, the gnome – Jeff? hit his forehead. "Of course! How could I forget?"

"I didn't know Gideon had such cute gnome siblings," Mabel said dreamily.

Although he was still in a state of astonishment, Dipper managed to say, "I don't think they're related to Gideon." His eyes were wide as he swept over them, yet he couldn't quite believe it. "They're… actual, real gnomes."

"How can they be gnomes when they're so adorable? Gnomes belong in the garden!"

Jeff visibly bristled. "First you barge into our home, then you insult us with talk of our stuffed brethren! I should have you shredded and fed to the birds!"

If he hadn't been hyperventilating before, he definitely was now that they were being threatened by a small creature, one that was supposedly mythical at that. "Okay, okay, man! Calm down!" he stepped back, placing himself between the gnome and Mabel, his hands coming up in surrender. "We didn't know this was your… home." Who could've guessed that gnomes were so territorial?

"Now you do!" Jeff still looked tense, like he'd jump at Dipper any second. "You should leave before we make you!" His voice had dropped to a low hiss.

Mabel leaned to whisper in Dipper's ear. "It's like angry kittens!"

"I.. I think we should be leaving," Dipper suggested with more than a hint of worry, turning around to gently push Mabel backwards. "Let's see if Stan is ready for us yet." Or he didn't care where they went, as long as they left the gnomes alone; he wasn't interested in finding out what they could do when angered, since they seemed to be treading the line by even being here in the first place.

She looked disappointed. "But I wanted to see if they'd release their little claws!" After another angry hiss from Jeff and the Gnome Gang, she relented, and Dipper grabbed her hand to drag her back in the direction they'd come from.

"Do you think he's made pasta?"

* * *

Despite the sexual comments and suggestive eyebrow wiggles, Stan had surprised him by saying something so candid, so genuine and horrifyingly  _honest_ , that it had created a hushed silence between them.

When he'd asked if Stan was serious, Ford had been hoping he would crack into a fit of laughter.

This… was much heavier. And unexpected.

Frightening, really.

It was brutally straightforward and gave them no choice but to face the question of 'them' head on, and he didn't think he was in any state to do such a thing.

The desperation etched on Stan's features had his heart aching, and he wished there was a simple way to dodge this conversation, the inevitable moment that'd make or break a relationship between them — he wasn't ready for it, nor in an acceptable state to engage in it, but his whiskey-clouded mind couldn't conjure an easy escape route.

Each moment of silenced looked like it was getting to Stan, who shuffled uncomfortably in his seat.

Ford was conflicted, caught between telling Stan exactly what he wanted to hear or trying to let him down as gently as possible, disinterested in the proposition. He didn't know which one was honest anymore, or if either accurately reflected how he felt.

And Stan wasn't giving him an out by breaking first and changing the subject, giving him something different to latch onto. He was silent, they both were, and the air was tense and thick around them with  _those words_ lingering.

"Stanley, I…" he started, fidgeting. Ford didn't know how to continue, what to say. This situation was overwhelming, and it didn't help that he was still struggling to emotionally process the breakup with Fiddleford.

The flicker of hope in Stan's gaze was going to be the death of him. "Is that a yes?"

Once again, he decided that the wall was a much nicer view than Stan's face because he didn't want to see the disappointment, the pain, whatever could be hiding there.

To put it simply, Ford was afraid. Downright terrified. He didn't want to hurt Stan, but he didn't know what  _he_ wanted.

"...Ford?" Stan's voice grew quiet. "You're giving the wall the 'Fiffleford' look again. Are you… are you thinking about him? Getting back together?"

That brought Ford out of his daze, and he shook his head quickly. "What? No! Of course not." The thought was absurd. He was going to miss having an assistant and a companion in his research, but would he miss the relationship? Likely not. "I'm not even sure of his whereabouts." Ford hadn't asked, Fiddleford hadn't offered, but one educated guess would be the bus stop.

"Are ya sure? 'Cause, y'know, you did just break up with him, and there was all that … sadness with you talking about your break up." Stan was struggling to speak, his gaze growing downcast from Ford.

"You were right about what you said," he mumbled, recalling Stan's earlier comment. "We were pals, not… steadies. I'm not pining after him." Maybe he never had been and was merely infatuated with the idea of having someone who understood that side of him.

"Are ya pining after me?" Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Stan was glancing up at him. That hope, the thing Ford loathed so deeply, was back in his voice.

Ford peered to Stan, feeling like he couldn't breathe again. It was another question that required deep introspection, it was much more than a simple yes or no. It was a proposition, he knew very well, to become what they used to be, and he couldn't determine if he could handle that… or even desired it.

His mind felt a muddled mess. All the intelligence in the world— _genius_ , he scoffed to himself, the word mocking him—couldn't help here.

"... Is that a no?"

"I don't know!" he finally replied, the words spilling from him in a fit of frustration, exhausted with the lack of cooperation from his brain, and uncertainty was tugging him every which way. Softening, Ford reiterated, "I'm not sure, Stan."

Stan looked up at him. "How can you not be sure? You're... you." A hand motioned to him. "You're sure about everything."

Emotional fatigue was weighing down on him, hard, but he had to make Stan understand this wasn't as uncomplicated as he seemed to believe. "Consider this," Ford said, "earlier this morning, I would have told you I was sure that Fiddleford and I would still be in a relationship at the end of the day. Certainly shows how much I know." The whiskey had been a surprise too, but he'd brought that one on himself.

"You sure as hell know more than I do. I was bettin' you wouldn't have lasted a week from when ya started."

At least Stan knew how to manage feelings. Ford's were a complete wreck, all over the place, and he was trying hard to shut them out and look at this objectively. "I would've bet that it was a lifelong commitment, so you won."

"You never were very committed to anything but science."

"Yet somehow you're convinced that I'd be your ideal steady." Ford wanted to sigh his emotionally dumb brains out.

"With an ass as fine as yours, I can't lose."  
Was that what this was about? If it was a purely physical attraction that Stan was experiencing toward him, perhaps this issue wasn't nearly as severe as he'd originally thought… If this was nothing more than physical, he could decline and there would be no devastation or subsequent awkwardness between them aside from Stan having to ...take care of his own needs, later.

A bit perplexed, Ford stared at his brother for a moment as he tried to decipher whether or not he was joking.

"What?" Stan stared back at him. "Look, I get you're not the most … romantically there, Ford. I don't expect that from you. But don't go thinkin' for a moment I don't love that smartass brain of yours, even though I sometimes want to bash it."

With a sinking feeling, he realized they were at square one. Worse yet, he still owed Stan an answer; he knew he hadn't forgotten, and he didn't think it was fair to leave without a reply since Stan had put his heart on his sleeve for this discussion. That was a rarity.

It was incredibly brave when they'd been at ends for many years, to say those feelings remained without a trace of playfulness or an option of backing out. Stan had laid it before them, and Ford assumed he was probably internally fretting over it more than he let on. He always had been the better actor, liar, between the two of them.

Stan must have thought he hated him. His feedback had been less than positive, after all. Borderline none. The thought nagged at Ford, a sharp reminder that it was his turn to make a move; Stan likely wouldn't, and worse, might back off entirely if this didn't end in their relationship advancing.

"How  _can_ I ascertain what I want right now?" It skirted the issue at best, and he couldn't tell if it was a reply to Stan or simply voicing his thoughts aloud. "I've been through one breakup and half a pint of whiskey this evening." It was an absolute emotional rollercoaster.

Stan moved closer to him, reaching to set his hand over Ford's and although he stiffened at the contact, he didn't pull away. "It's not like we didn't have somethin' before, darlin'. Stop fightin' yourself so much."

The familiarity of  _them_ sounded comforting, especially now when it felt his love life and career were falling to shambles, broken apart and laying strewn like the pieces of the portal. He missed the stability of Stan, the stolen kisses, the adventure and racing hearts — it was a time where their futures were combined into a basic dream they shared. Not… this twisted web they were currently in.

But Ford didn't trust his judgment, and it was making him hesitate. Logically, he was aware he wasn't of sound mind when he'd been drinking earlier, and breaking up with Fiddleford had been tough.

Facing those less-than-perfect parts of himself… Ford shuddered, about to mull over the problematic nature of what his former assistant had said but Stan had his concentrating crumbling.

"You're thinkin' way too hard about this, doll."

Ford was drawn to Stan's earnesty, his wide eyes locked on Stan's. "You'll find someone else again." Despite willing his words to be steady, they wavered with vulnerability. And he hated it. The confession of fear was out before he could stop it, a reflection of many troubled nights as he'd thought about their previous relationship.

Stan's eyes flashed. "No one can replace you."

He felt choked. "Carla." Just like that, they were suddenly back to being teens and the pain of Stan moving on—well, from his perspective—had been too much for him then, and he was unwilling to thrust himself into a similar situation only to go through it when Stan found someone better.

"What– oh." Stan seemed stumped by this, if only briefly. "You threw yourself into science before I even knew she existed. It was like I was on the back burner, an afterthought of all your precious work."

Fiddleford's warning resounded in his head, loudly, with painful clarity.  _You never even bothered to do anythin' romantic with me, and I was supposed to be yer boyfriend._ Ford wanted to cover his ears, not that it'd help block out the offending memory.

He was determined to never let that happen again. He couldn't hurt Stan.

Ford winced, his headache was going to kill him, and everything still felt too overwhelming. "You're more important to me," it was hardly audible, a small albeit heartfelt admission.

"You are too, Ford."

"Give me time to think about this. Please." Ford murmured, "You shouldn't be a… a rebound." After the alcohol had worn off, and the breakup behind him, he would be in a better position to seriously consider the possibility of them.

He didn't want to regret it. That would just hurt Stan more than if he rejected him this second.

Stan's eyes narrowed as if in examination, inching toward Ford as he raised his hand to cup Ford's jawline. He shivered at the touch, naturally leaning into it as Stan's eyes gazed into his, seeking signs of objections as he began to lean in.

Mouth going slack and eyes becoming glassy, Ford's lips parted instinctively. They'd been here before, he realized through the haze of desire, he knew where this was going.

But oh god, that meant… it meant Stan was going to kiss him. A kiss would be the natural progression of things, after all.

And he was going to  _let him_.

With that in mind, he should be alarmed. Panicked. Disgusted. Pushing him back, but none of that happened. Instead, he could feel his heart beating faster as Stan continued to close the gap between them, and his breath hitched in anticipation, eyelids fluttering closed.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but he was starting to believe he really, really wanted this.

Feeling the soft wisp of Stan's exhale ghosting across his skin, their lips were mere millimeters apart, and he wondered what Stan would taste like, if he still had the same taste that was uniquely and undeniably  _Stan_ even after—

The sounds of footsteps alerted them to the presence of someone approaching, and Stan quickly pulled away, his attention on the entrance to the kitchen.

"OMYGOSH! STAN! YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE WHAT JUST HAPPENED!"

The new presence had snapped Ford out of his previous thoughts, quickly recollecting himself. Whatever had been about to happen… perhaps it was best that it hadn't, he thought miserably, but it did leave him wanting.

Hazily, he remembered Stan had locked the foyer door… they must have found it important enough to burst through one of the many other entrances.

"Did another boy ask you out?" Stan's voice was dry, and it was clear to Ford he was annoyed by the interruptions.

A second later, a strained and huffing Dipper joined her, clutching his chest like he was trying to keep his breathing in check to no avail. He looked suspended between disbelief and afraid. "Gnomes! There… there are  _gnomes_!" A pause to gasp for air. "Real gnomes!"

Ford's interest was immediately piqued by the boy's discovery. "Gnomes?" he echoed, standing up from the chair with a sudden burst of energy. All thoughts of what'd gone on before their arrival were forgotten. Receiving a nod from Dipper and a confirming screech from Mabel, Ford explained enthusiastically, "I've been attempting to document them! I'm aware of their presence, but they're notoriously difficult to locate."

"This room has gotten disgustingly more nerdy," Stan commented.

"Stanley, hush!" Ford shushed him with a dismissive wave, not even glancing away from the twins.

He grumped. "I'll make ya hush, Ford."

Although he heard Stan, he was too distracted to care. "Near Gravity Falls? What were they like, would you be able to describe them? How many were there? My research has suggested they gather in small communities, villages, if you will, that can range from—"

Mabel was quick to provide some descriptions, albeit they seemed questionable. "They were short, and like mini-Gideons but kitty-like! They hissed, and had pointy little hats like Santa, and I wanted to squish their widdle noses!"

"And… and this one gnome, Jeff I guess, he said.. we were in his territory!" Dipper added, steadily catching his breath but still hunched over.

"They're territorial? Intriguing," Ford mused to himself, mentally taking notes on what the kids said, even if he wasn't really sure who or what a 'Gideon' was. The name had been tossed around a few times, though…

While he'd lived in Gravity Falls over a year now, he didn't get out much.

Mabel rambled on, "He had a bunch of gnomes surround us when he threatened us. But they were sooo cute!"

"I just can't believe they're REAL," Dipper stressed, pacing the expanse of the foyer as he gripped his hat. Ford noted it was suspiciously similar to one of the gift shop items.

"I can't believe they're so adorable! Can we keep one?"

"If you want a gnome, sweetie, we can steal one from Lazy Susan's garden." Stan glanced at the excited teenager as she squealed more, his hand slowly snaking its way to the half-full bottle of whiskey.

"Nonsense," Ford huffed. "I've been hoping to capture a live specimen for my studies, stealing won't be necessary. However, I've had no luck finding their colonies." His eyes settled on Dipper, hopeful. "Would you be able to detail where you found them? Or.. better yet, you could take me to them." It would leave less room for errors, and he'd be able to document them in his journal  _at last_.

Dipper's face seemed to light up, and he nodded with an eagerness that Ford found familiar. "Yes, of course!"

"Before ya get too excited," Stan butted in, effectively putting a damper on the mood, "it's too late to go runnin' into the woods. You'll just get lost in the dark. Ya should wait 'til tomorrow once Dipper's off work."

Ford scoffed, he'd been out later than this; he knew the woods in the daylight and by the moon, so he didn't see the issue. "Do you realize this could be a major breakthrough in my research?" he asked, fingers already itching to write down the new information about gnomes. "I've encountered enough setbacks as it is, with the portal—"

"It can wait a night, Ford. These kids don't know the woods at all, and the last thing they need is to be blunderin' through it in the dark with you 'supervising' them. Let's have dinner, get to bed, and we can have an early start in the mornin'."

"Speaking of dinner…" Mabel began to speak. "You KICKED US OUT FOR HOURS, and THERE'S NO PASTA? I can't believe you lied to me!" She pouted, her arms crossing over her chest.

Ford stared at her, wondering what kind of residents they had acquired since the little lady was already making demands like she owned the place. As for Dipper, he seemed… out of shape, and slightly sweaty, but at least they apparently shared a common interest in the unknown.

"Uh…" Stan glanced at Ford for help. "Now that uh, things have been settled, we can make pasta sweetie! Get the noodles and start cookin'!"

"But you said–"

Stan tsked her. "I told ya, it's the responsibility of you and Dipper to cook."

Dipper looked critically at Stan. "What happened to not being responsible for dinner tonight?"

He vaguely recalled the exchange from earlier but Ford wasn't sure who was right or wrong, or if it mattered — he was tempted to make the pasta himself if it was going to be such a problem.

"Plans change, kiddo. Now get to work!" Stan's tone was clearly dismissive.

Dipper seemed to know better than to protest at that. "Let's get dinner started, Mabel," he said as he moved further into the kitchen, beginning to prepare ingredients. "Uh, Stan… how many are we cooking for?" His eyes slid from Stan to Ford, then back to Stan again as if he didn't want to be caught staring.

Ford raised an eyebrow at the kid's hesitance. Why he hadn't asked directly left him wondering if Stan had said something negative about him in their presence, and with suspicion, he peered to his brother as well.

"Are you staying for dinner?" Stan passed the question to Ford.

"Please!" Mabel stopped helping dinner in favor of peering at Ford with big eyes. "Please! You need to stay!"

Although he was on the fence about having dinner with them initially, her insistence was hard to resist, and he didn't want to disappoint… but there was the persistent feeling that Stan had told the kids about him. "I suppose if Stan doesn't mind my intrusion on his family time," he muttered dryly.

"If I wanted ya gone, I woud've kicked your scrawny ass out by now." His tone wasn't without affection.

"Language." Stan didn't need to expose the houseguests to his sailor's tongue. He didn't mind it when they were alone, but these two were barely more than overgrown children.

Mabel squealed and pumped an arm in victory. "Yay! Now you can hug it out and I  _don't_  have to lock you in a closet!"

Ford inhaled sharply in surprise. What? He made a mental note to never go into a closet at Mabel's request.

To his horror, Stan laughed. "Sounds like seven minutes in heaven, huh?" He nudged Ford.

Unsure how to respond, his cheeks pinkened slightly — Stan shouldn't be doing this in front of children either — it was bad enough that he was a flirt to begin with. "...Ah," he cleared his throat, "I don't believe I ever quite… grasped the concept of that game." Where was the fun in locking oneself in a closet with another person? It made no sense.

"I loved that game," Mabel said. "I remember Dipper," who seemed too busy dealing with a noodle fiasco to contribute, "hated it because he ended up kissing a watermelon with mop hair."  
Stan roared in laughter. "How'd he manage to do that? Did no one go in with the nerd?"

"Someone did, but she wedged herself in the corner and pushed the watermelon in front of her so he smooched it instead. Everyone opened the door on him while he was going at it!"

By now, Dipper had tuned in to the conversation and whined, " _Mabel_."

This was a lot more than Ford ever wanted to know. He was the one with a thirst for knowledge, yet this was leading him to think that staying for dinner had been a mistake. It was the same sort of gossip that he didn't engage in while he was still in school.

Allowing them to indulge in their discussion while he daydreamed, he sat down at the table and awkwardly drummed his fingers against the wood.

The movement had caught Mabel's attention, and she poked at his fingers, noticing there was an extra pinky on each hand. "Why is your hand so freaky?"

Ford flinched at the word. He was accustomed to it since it'd been tossed at him countless times over the years, but it was no easier to hear. Crampelter's unending taunting, prying strangers, his own father… Swallowing thickly, he removed his hands from the table to place them in his lap instead, shame burning at him.

He reminded himself it was an innocent question, if not poorly phrased, and he felt tongue-tied as he prepared a suitable reply to her curiosity.

"Mabel." All amusement in Stan's voice had vanished, an edge to his words. "There is nothing wrong with his hands, ya hear me? Now drop it. Weren't ya supposed to be helping Dipper make dinner?""

By now, Dipper was also peering at them, squinting as if trying to see the  _freakiness_ for himself. It only made him more self-conscious.

"Stan," he sounded a little breathless, but forced a smile. "It's okay." Glancing to Mabel, Ford raised one of his hands with the fingers spread, "I have six fingers on each hand. I can understand why you might find that…" the word  _freaky_ was burned in his mind, "unusual."

"That's so cooool," Mabel whispered, awestruck. "I'd kill for them." Not the reaction he'd expected, but a pleasant change of pace… probably. This one was kind of unnerving him with her talk of closets and killing, but he appreciated her honesty and enthusiasm.

"Can I… touch?" Mabel slowly reached out to touch his fingers. He stayed still as her fingers lightly grazed his skin, running along where his extra digits met his hand. "Dipper," she called over to her brother, "can I have your pinkies?"

"You're being creepy," he called back. "Also, dinner's done! ...I think."

"Am not!" She protested.

"Alright, that's enough." Stan got to his feet. "How do ya only think it's done? Did ya burn it or somethin'?"

Ford watched in mild amusement as Stan joined Dipper at the stove, the teen motioning into the pot of noodles as he explained, "I didn't burn it! It just looks done, y'know? And it's been boiling for a while… do you think it's ready?"

"Hell if I know. They look like tapeworms."

Dipper made a noise of disgust. "That's so gross."

"You still hungry, kiddo?"

Although that divulged into a brief conversation about appropriate comments to make when they were about to eat, they soon plated up the food and relocated to the living room. It was more spacious than the tiny kitchen, and everyone had a spot around the television. A rerun of the final season of  _The Andy Griffith Show_  was on, albeit Stan didn't look pleased.

"Where the hell did Knotts go?" he grumped, shoveling a forkful of pasta into his mouth. He didn't seem to care that he was chewing as he continued, "This show is shit without him!"

Ford rolled his eyes. "Most of his antics were mere comedy relief and didn't add to the show's plot." While Barney did have charm, the stories were no longer being railroaded for a simple laugh or two in the last season.

"He added plenty of plot!" Stan argued. "If it weren't for him, those fine fellas wouldn't have been released from being unfairly imprisoned!" He figured Stan was referring to the abundance of times that Knotts' character stupidly let the criminals escape from the courthouse jail, and forced others to clean up his mess.

"I disagree. Deputy Barney Fife was a menace to Mayberry."

Mabel looked up from her pasta, a string hanging in her mouth. "You're arguing over a TV show… is this why you split apart?"

Alarmed, Ford wasn't sure if she was intuitively stitching together the clues of bad blood between him and Stan (though it wasn't over a television show), or if Stan had mentioned something to them as he'd already theorized. Argument forgotten, he coughed and muttered, "No."

He hoped that would be the end of it, and they could enjoy the rest of their dinner in peace.

"So why  _did_ you split apart?" Dipper asked too curiously to be ashamed, looking up from the journal he was scribbling in rather than paying attention to the television. Ford recognized the reddish cover of the book as a blank copy of the journals he used for his research, not that he minded — he liked to believe he understood teenage angst and the desire to document those struggles, if that was what Dipper was doing. It was a healthy outlet.

Stan scowled at the both of them. "That's none of your businesses, kids. You can take further questions out to the trash!"

While normally an advocate of exploring questions, Ford was relieved Stan didn't offer them any details. That information—and painful piece of their lives—was to stay between the two of them.

Besides, Stan may have been fond of these two, but he still didn't know either very well.

"Aw." Mabel gave them a sad look before she went back to eating through her second bowl.

They finished up the remainder of their pasta, and Mabel collected all the plates to bring them to the kitchen as Dipper followed behind, scribbling last notes in his journal entry.

For a some time, they could hear the two playfully bickering back and forth as they cleaned the kitchen and all dishes that were used for the evening meal, meanwhile Stan and Ford watched the television in relative silence, only sharing a few words between them. Namely: "pass the remote" and "okay."

Ford regretted handing it over, because soon  _The Andy Griffith Show_  was replaced by coverage on the war.

"Fight, fight, fight!" He could hear his brother chant beside him, and Ford's stomach churned uneasily as images of wounded soldiers and a war-stricken Vietnam appeared on the screen.

Needless to say, he retrieved the remote to go back to something less... graphic. Just because the teenagers weren't physically present, preoccupied by their dish washing, didn't mean they should be watching that, and Stan's inappropriate response wasn't helping his case.

He knew all too well about those insensitive wooden figures of soldiers that Stan pawned off to the town, and that was just touching the surface of terrible ways his brother incorporated the ongoing war into his marketing schemes.

"Hey!" Stan attempted to grab the remote back. "I was watchin' that!"

Ford held it away from him, unwilling to return to the news — all the media showed was war-related segments. "You could at least show a shred of respect."

"Oh please, those suckers don't deserve it and you know it, you goddamn hippie."

"I'm a pacifist," Ford corrected. "Objecting to the war is not the same as being disrespectful of those fighting in it."

Stan laughed at him. "You weren't very pacifistic when we were fightin' a few days ago."

That was still a fresh wound, and he faintly suspected it was the event that served as not just a catalyst to the portal's destruction, but his falling out with Fiddleford. "I didn't  _want_ to fight you," he stressed, "but you—"

"I didn't think a peace-loving dove would fight back."

As much as he wished to point out any fighting he'd done was in self-defense, precisely to get Stan away from him (or off of him), he was too tired for this argument. The lingering effects of the alcohol were making him sleepy, and the emotional drain of the day was wearing on him enough to convince him to stay silent.

Stan had given up on trying to get the remote, relaxing back into his armchair. "Kids! Ya done yet? It doesn't take a year to throw some dishes in the sink!"

A reply of "we're almost done!" turned into the kids joining them in the living room within a couple minutes, and then they were back to watching television together. There was a bit of idle conversation, but it was clear the day was winding down, so it wasn't long before the kids retreated upstairs to go to bed with a reminder from Stan that they were needed bright and early at the Shack.

Ford was acutely aware that he should be spending this time working rather than sitting upstairs, especially given the portal's disrepair, but he couldn't bring himself to go. He didn't want to face the loneliness of the basement, knowing there'd be no Fiddleford down there for a change.

Just him, his notebooks, and a pile of scrap metal. That was all it was at this point, and…

And that was depressing.

"Are ya gonna head to bed?" Stan inquired to Ford. "I can't imagine you wantin' to jump back to work after the hell of today."

"Yes," he answered truthfully. He didn't add that he dreaded going to work tomorrow. "What time is it?" He'd lost track somewhere between the kids disappearing to sleep, and old reruns of  _Leave It To Beaver._

Stan glanced at his watch, squinting in the dull light. "Goin' on midnight, now."

Ford hummed in reply, finding that interesting since he was usually sleeping during the mid-hours of the morning, or… whenever he had an opportunity to catch a couple hours of rest. He didn't have a set schedule when his work demanded his full attention most days. But this seemed late for Stan, and he asked, "What about you?"

"Planning on it soon," he said. "Wanted to know what you were up to. Mainly so if you didn't go to bed, I could make ya."

"I feel uncharacteristically exhausted this evening." It'd be nice to not struggle to fall asleep for once.

"Maybe ya shouldn't have hit my stash. Booze does that, Sixer."

A half-hearted smile pulled at his lips. In retrospect, that had been a poor idea, an ineffective way of grieving over his friendship with Fiddleford, but there was no going back now. Stan's comfort had been appreciated too, but he didn't know if he wanted to think about that yet. It was difficult, still made him feel conflicted. It was a topic for tomorrow. Thoughts drifting to the whiskey, he said, "I was going to ask what I owed you."

With a smirk, Stan almost instantly responded. "A kiss."

Honestly, he should've expected such a reply from Stan, but he knew it wasn't serious. "Oh? I thought you would've taken the opportunity to ask for something more," he said, attempting to humor him, "like oral sex. Or…" He blushed, he couldn't do it.

"Please," Stan said. "I'd love for you to suck my cock but I figured you'd like it better if I was… whatchacallit,  _classier_."

"Do I at least get to choose where the kiss is?"

"Are you gonna give my head a smooch?" His smirk had returned.

His eyebrows knitted together, surprised by how innocent the request appeared to be. "If— if that's what you'd like?"

"The head of my dick, darlin'."

Oh..

OH.

"No." He should've known there were strings attached to this. "I thought you were trying to be classier."

"Ya sure you don't want to give it some lovin'? It misses you dearly."

"At this point," he shuffled his weight, looking embarrassed by the topic at hand, "I'll not only pay you for the whiskey, I'll pay you to stop."

"With what money?" Stan raised an eyebrow at him.

Ford hesitated, tempted to tell Stan he could pay using the grant money since he still had plenty of it, but he knew that wasn't really an option. Plus, he viewed this whole problem as theoretical.

"That's what I thought, doll. Don't try to bribe me with money ya don't got."

"Does that mean I'll have to work off my debt to you too now?" he asked sarcastically, a reference to the teens and their presence in the Shack.

"Nah, ya haven't broken my dick yet."

"Should I be concerned about what you've done with those children?"

Stan gave him a blank look. "The only person in this house who's seen or had my dick inside them is you, Ford."

"Is that so? You seem to fuck over tourists exceedingly often." Such language was abnormal for him, but the grin on his face said he couldn't resist.

"Yeah, but they don't see my penis like you do." He winked at him.

Flushing, he averted his gaze and decided it had probably gone far enough. A tiny part of him was worried that if they continued, the conversation pertaining to  _them_ earlier might come back to haunt him before he'd had sufficient time to weigh his thoughts on the matter. Carding a six-fingered hand through his hair, Ford murmured, "It's getting late."

"It's been late," Stan said. "I've been havin' a good time."

He hummed dismissively, rising to his feet. "I ought to sleep." Whether he would or not was questionable, though he still felt drained from the events of the day.

Stan stood as well. "We can always sleep together again, Sixer."

"We're not children anymore." Sharing beds seemed like a relic of the past, he couldn't even recall the last time they'd been in the same bed but estimated it'd been at least eight years.

A laugh. "That's not what I meant."

It clicked after a second, and he bashfully clasped his hands behind his back. This stance, the shyness… it was another relic of their teenage years. "O-oh." His throat felt dry.

"Sounds familiar. Like when you first lost that virginity of yours..."

Surely, Ford thought, they had to be too old for this. Too old to be flirting like sexually-frustrated high schoolers. " _Stanley_ ," he near-whined, face warming. "I—I'm going to sleep." After a second, he rushedly added before Stan could comment, "Alone."

"Stop teasing me, Sixer. You got me all excited." Even so, Stan flashed him a grin. It was wolfish, predatory. "Goodnight, Poindexter."

Ford let out a little muffled noise, turning on his heels to disappear into the hallway and go to his bedroom.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut ahead. Also, Dipper has a brief infatuation with Ford (cough, hero worship), but it's just for this chapter.

Mabel could hardly contain her excitement as she watched the hands of the analog clock tick away. The Mystery Shack was closing its doors to tourists for the evening, and her date would be here any moment. That moment was the one she'd been waiting for anxiously, spending hours on her appearance because everything had to be perfect. For her attire, she settled on her shooting star with the rainbow trail sweater and her pale purple skirt, finished with her open-top black dress shoes. She thought she looked  _fabulous_ , though she was internally fretting over her makeup as she applied finishing touches in the mirror of the Shack's gift shop.

The bell above the door dinged as Wendy was on her way out, looking over her shoulder at Mabel to give one last piece of advice from one gal to another, "Remember to have a good time, and don't stress about this. When I first started dating Robbie, I was all caught up in the, 'will he like me' thing and forgot to relax." As she left the Shack and headed to her car, Mabel could hear her add to it. "Oh, and if he doesn't like you for you, he's not worth it!"

"Thanks Wendy!" she called, beaming from ear to ear in excitement. Earlier that day, she'd asked every employee for dating tips and advice, and honestly, she'd gotten wisdom that ranged from downright useless to incredibly helpful. Most of it came from Wendy since she was the most experienced in the matters of dating, and she was eager to put some of that knowledge to the test this evening on her date with Gideon.

"I still can't believe she's dating Robbie," Dipper mumbled with envy in his voice, and from the corner of her vision could see him moving to stand beside her, smoothing the wrinkles of his shirt down. Since when did her brother care if he looked presentable?

"I still can't believe you're going on a date with Ford," Mabel joked. She thought they were going off to find Gideon's siblings (i.e. the gnomes), but Dipper was acting like they were going to a restaurant.

Dipper frowned, tilting his head to face her. "I'm not! Documenting gnomes is hardly a date, and… he's  _old_."

She couldn't help but giggle. "That doesn't seem to stop you from dressing up around him. You gonna wiggle your booty while you're at it?"

"I want Ford to take me seriously, so looking presentable is important!"

"For your date!"

He let out an exasperated sigh. "Remember yesterday when we were walking, how we found it strange that Ford kept to himself? We thought he was kind of mysterious? This is the perfect opportunity to get to know more about him, and maybe he'll tell me what happened between him and Stan."

Mabel shot him a grin. "You're not helping your case." Dressing up, being alone with Ford, wanting to get to  _know_  him, it was like something out of her cheesy romance novels. "I always knew you wanted to be in a relationship, but I didn't think you were so desperate. He's like twice our age! What about Wendy?"

Miserably, Dipper groaned and began pacing the gift shop. "I wish Wendy would wake up and realize I could be a better fit for her than Robbie, y'know? We work together almost everyday! We're good together." She felt a little sympathetic, but it was hard to stay focused when her own date was going to arrive soon, she could just feel it!

Now that Dipper was pacing, it freed up the mirror display and she posed in front of it, once again fretting over her appearance. "How does my makeup look? Do you think Gideon will think I'm a clown?" Her voice dropped to a whine. "I don't want to be a clown, Dipper! I'm a girl!"

"Are you saying girls can't be clowns…?"

"No, we can't!" She stomped her foot. "Do I look like a clown?" He'd better say no.

There would be hell to pay if he didn't.

Dipper looked startled for a moment from the force of her question. "No way." He shook his head. "You look amazing, Mabel. Really."

"Good!" Her hand compulsively ran through her hair, smoothing it out. "I hope Gideon will like it…" This was her first date, and she was excited it was happening. Gideon was cute, but she didn't  _love_  him, and she'd be happy with going out with anyone else that wasn't old or Dipper. "With how fancy you look, you should have makeup, too!"

"Seriously?" Dipper laughed, seemingly brushing off the thought. "I don't think I'd look half as good as you."

Mabel eyed him up, her gaze scanning him critically, examining. "Maybe not, but I could make you look fabulous for your date with Ford."

"I already told you it's not a date," he stressed, resuming his pacing. "According to Ford, gnomes are an elusive species and I'm helping with his research by…"

Tuning him out, She had moved away from him in favor of heading to the cash register. Beneath the till was a box of Wendy's magazines, and Mabel had stashed some makeup in there for when she wanted to reapply it throughout the day. "Research— more like  _smooch-search_. C'mere Dippy!"

Mabel grabbed her case of makeup and headed back over to her brother. "We can do this the easy way, or the hard way! Either way, it's makeover time!"

"Wait, what?" he squeaked, eyes going wide with confusion. "Mabel, I don't—"

"You heard me, pucker those lips!"

"But Ford will be here—! I can't go out with makeup on!" When he seemed to notice that she wasn't listening to his pleas, he tried a cry of, " _Mabel_!"

Mabel's giggling was maniacal as she began to pull brushes of makeup out of her cosmetic case and approached her brother. "It'll be less painful for you if you stay still!"

She could see the flicker of fear in his eyes, and she was ready to tackle him if he attempted to squirm away. "Mabel, come on, I don't want to get a makeover," Dipper whined. "If Stan comes in here and I have makeup on my face, he'll just tease me for being girly. Maybe Ford too."

"Dipper," her voice dropped to a whine. "I don't have anyone else to give a makeovers to anymore, ever since we left Piedmont! And you have lots of time before your date with Ford to clean up!"

"It's still not a date…" Glancing away and rubbing his arm, his resolve seemed to fade, expression softening. She recognized that look, knew he would concede, and when he finally nodded his consent with a quiet, grumbling "okay", a victory grin settled on her lips.

Mabel made quick work of his face, applying everything from eyeshadow to blush and lipstick. When she was done, she thought he looked  _gorgeous_. "Ford will be swooning over you now!"

Dipper didn't look  _pleased_ with the makeover, but she figured he could just clean it off in a couple minutes. "Ew, Mabel, no," he grumbled, folding his arms defiantly. "Stop saying that! We're just researching gnomes, not dating!"

"Whatever you say, bro-bro!" She didn't believe him, but her thoughts were derailed by the sound of a car horn. Hands coming to her cheeks, she screeched, "OMYGOSH! Dipper, he's here!  _He's here_!" Mabel ran toward the door, throwing it open and all but sprinting outside toward the parked Phoenix.

Bill was leaning against the hood with his hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks, and her eyes scanned for her date. She gasped as she saw him, running over with a skip in her step. "Gideon!" she squealed.

"Oh my," he inhaled as he saw her, hands latching together, chubby fingers lacing with her own. "You look utterly breathtaking, my queen."

Perhaps if she wasn't so excited by the date, she would have been weirded out by his term of endearment. "When are we going?" she asked him, practically bouncing off the ground. "Are we going now?"

"Hey Shooting Star," Bill greeted her. "Nice of you to run by. Before we pop off, I wanted to speak to Stan and catch up. Give you two lovebirds some alone time."

Mabel had opened her mouth in protest–this was  _HER_  date, how dare he waste time–but Bill was already heading inside the Shack.

* * *

Ugh, how was he going to get this off?

Dipper let out an irritated huff at Mabel's antics that'd resulted in a face full of makeup. Specifically, his face. And he wanted it off, preferably before anyone had a chance to see — Mabel was right when she'd said Ford wouldn't be here yet, but he could hear Stan walking around the Shack while the clinking of a hammer suggested Soos was staying after hours for repair work.

As long as he could avoid running into either of them, he could get to a bathroom and wash it off before anybody saw...

He heard the bell above the door ding, signalling someone had walked in, and he turned to face them, about to ask his sister what she'd forgotten so he could run upstairs and get it for her.

But it wasn't Mabel.

The tall figure in the doorway looked slightly familiar—had he seen him in the crowd at the marketplace? Dipper wasn't sure, but he was certain he knew him from somewhere. Momentarily forgetting that he had makeup coating his face, he stepped between the door and the remainder of the shop, blocking the entrance as he raised a finger to point out, "Uh, the gift shop is closed for the day. Sorry, man."

The blonde didn't seem to care about what Dipper said, leaning down to get a better look at his face. "When Stan told me he took in a couple strays, he didn't tell me he nabbed two girls. What's your name, cutie?"

Flushing with embarrassment, Dipper immediately snapped, "I'm a guy!" Whether he was serious or was just being an ass about this, he couldn't tell. "Mabel is my sister. I'm Dipper, her brother." The last word had a bit of a stress to it, as if accenting the fact he was definitely male, despite what the makeup may have implied.

"Are you sure?" The guy flicked Dipper's hat, bringing him to readjust it with an angry pout. "With all that makeup, it's hard to tell! Here Pine Tree, have a handkerchief." He whipped a yellow colored handkerchief from his pocket, offering it to Dipper. "Wipe that shit off your pretty face."

Why did he bother asking for his name if he wasn't going to use it? He was less than thrilled with the nickname but begrudgingly accepted the handkerchief since he  _did_ want to get rid of the makeup. Sweeping the cloth across his face a couple of times, he pulled back to see it was now stained with various colors, and he offered it back to the other male. "Are you going to leave now, or…?" he motioned again to the blatant 'CLOSED' sign.

With a look of disgust, he waved off the handkerchief. "You keep it. I'll get a new one. It'll be a genuine  _gold_ , not this distasteful yellow." The male took a step into the building, pushing Dipper out of his way, much to his displeasure. "Where's Stan? I wanted to talk to the big guy," there was a pause, and he smirked slyly, giving Dipper a sideways glance, "not his daughter."

"Hey! You— you can't just.." he protested, following quickly after him. Since he wasn't here as a customer, Dipper wondered if that meant he could be rude and start demanding he leave… but he figured that wouldn't work. Think, Dipper, think, he willed himself inwardly. Puffing his chest, he said, "I'm  _not_ a girl, and you can wait here and I can get Stan for you."

"Ho ho ho, you might want to look in a mirror Pine Tree! Your makeup is smeared all over your cute little face."

Puzzled, he glanced to the nearest mirror and was startled to see he was right; the makeup looked ridiculous, smeared wildly across his eyes and lips. Great. By the time he looked back, the other male had arrived at the  _Employees Only!_  door, and was reaching to open it. "But nah, I don't need a girl finding my buddy for me! You can stay here and warm the mirror."

Dipper was irritated by this guy, whoever he was. And he didn't want to give him the satisfaction of finding Stan now, so he yelled through the Mystery Shack, " _Stan, some jerk is here to see you_!"

"Tell Bill he can go suck a lemon!" Stan's voice hollered back through the building.

So this… this beanpole was  _Bill_? The Bill he kept hearing about from everyone? How people loved this guy, he had no clue. He'd been nothing but a pain so far.

Bill's expression remained amused, and he called: "The only one around here sucking lemons is Ford!"

"Look, you got your answer." Dipper said frustratedly, a hand resting on his hip. "Are you going to leave or not, man?" The sooner Bill left, the sooner he could get the recently-smeared makeup washed from his face, and be presentable for his outing with Ford.

"I know I've said it before, but let me reiterate: you're quite the cutie," Bill commented to him. "Wish I'd snatched you up before I agreed to chauffeur Gideon and Shooting Star tonight. We would've had a blast!"

Dipper didn't know if he should be annoyed or flattered by how forward he was, implying he would've taken him on a  _date_ , but he was leaning toward the former considering their interactions up to this point. Still, he was blushing, a bit flustered by it even if he wasn't interested.

"You couldn't afford a date with me," he muttered sarcastically, rolling his eyes. It wasn't really true—he wasn't picky about dates, it would be a miracle if he got one to begin with (hopefully with someone less…. Bill-esque), but it might be enough to deter him.

He didn't know how he felt about the look Bill shot in his direction, but it left him with uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. "Oh? Follow me, cutie." Bill led him outside by the wrist while ignoring Dipper's protests, holding the Shack door open as he nodded toward the gold Phoenix with a mischievous glint in his eye. "If I can afford that car, I can afford anything you'd wanna do. Multiple times."

His eyes landed on the car, and suddenly the familiarity clicked into place because he  _knew_ that vehicle. Bill had been the one racing them yesterday.

"That overheating piece of junk? Pass." Dipper didn't care even if this guy was sitting on stacks of cash, and he turned to disappear back inside the Mystery Shack.

From behind, he heard Bill chuckle and muse, "Mm, I do like 'em fiery. Oh, and Pine Tree?" Unable to stop himself, Dipper glanced over his shoulder while mentally cursing his lack of self-control. Even though he'd looked away a second later, the inevitable smirk on that jerk's face was ingrained in his mind as Bill said, "This isn't over."

Dipper could hear car doors slamming and an engine revving over the next few minutes, the sound fading into the distance. Although he hadn't gotten a chance to tell her, he hoped Mabel enjoyed her date.

After some time, he managed to scrub away the last of the makeup, and with a glance at the dirty handkerchief, he discarded it in the nearby trash. Gross.

Ford had yet to arrive–a fact that was disappointing to Dipper–and while he continued to wait, he headed into the kitchen to sit at the table. If it weren't for the noise of the television and Stan occasionally laughing at it, the Shack would have been silent. Soos had packed up and gone for the evening too. It was almost lonely, without Mabel to keep him company…

"Ah, Dipper!" he jumped as a voice broke him from his thoughts, craning his neck to see Ford standing in the doorway of the kitchen. "Oh, I didn't intend to startle you. Are you ready to depart?" In his hands was a journal, appearing extremely similar to his own, with a pen and loose leaf paper sticking out from it. Probably spare notes.

"Uh, yes!" Dipper scrambled to his feet and joined Ford by his side. "I can't wait to show you where I found them," he gushed. It was nice to have someone around who didn't… mind his interest in anomalies, but he kind of missed Mabel. They were usually always together, but now she was on a date and he was working with Ford.

Ford's smile was encouraging, and he exited the Mystery Shack, motioning for him to take the lead. "Be my guest," he said, then glanced at his watch, "but… if you happen to have an estimate, approximately how far will we be traveling?"

He'd waited all day for this, and Dipper felt like he was hyperventilating with excitement as he started forward. And apparently, Ford noticed his erratic breathing. "Are you alright?"

"Yep! Just fine! I think it was uh, about fifteen minutes from here. It's a pretty easy walk."

"Wonderful," he replied, appearing determined. "As I mentioned yesterday, I've been attempting to document them but could never locate their small settlements. I suppose I hadn't gone far enough."

Dipper didn't blame him for not going far. Woods could be scary, especially once the sun went down. "Mabel and I didn't have much to do after Stan threw us out yesterday. I wasn't expecting to have little men holler at me for 'trespassing', though." They had entered the treeline, veering off the beaten paths around the Shack, and Dipper hoped he was going the right way.

That drew a soft chuckle from him. "I imagine that was quite surprising, but hardly unusual for Gravity Falls. Anomalies are everywhere here."

"What was the first anomaly you saw?" His curiosity was piqued, wondering what Ford had seen in his time living in the small town.

"Steve," a pause, "who is a tad difficult to describe."

Steve? At first, Dipper's mind went to the gnomes that confronted them the night before. Jeff had introduced a few of his brethren, including one named Steve, but it didn't make sense that Ford would be looking for gnomes if he had already discovered them.

"It's… tree-like, impossibly large. When I'd first arrived, the behemoth crushed my car with a single limb and dragged the wreckage into the woods."

As Ford continued to speak, Dipper paled. "That sounds… terrifying." He was debating never leaving the Shack again.

Seemingly oblivious to how horrifying that sounded, Ford dismissively said, "Oh, not at all, it was extremely encouraging. That was the moment I knew I'd made a move in the right direction for my research."

"When… when a monster carried your car off after crushing it with its limb?" How was that not mind-blowingly scary? "Do you have any creatures down in the basement? I know you're down there quite frequently." Doing 'nerdy shit', as Stan would put it.

A fond look seemed to cross his face at the mention of creatures in the basement. "Well, yes, ...perhaps you'd like to see for yourself?"

Wait. Was he serious?

That was the opportunity of a lifetime! Dipper nodded enthusiastically. "I would! Is that what you're doing in the basement? Examining monsters?"

"Yes, that's part of my work." He paused, as if debating on his next words. "But more broadly, I'm researching and documenting anomalies." Dipper's wide-eyed gaze of interest seemed to spur him on to say more. "Along with that, I've been working on various inventions. A quantum destabilizer gun, an interdimensional portal, and quite a few other projects here and there. However, the portal's progress lately has been…" Ford sighed, "less than promising, so I am focusing more on anomalies for the present."

He continued, "And, with your recent discovery of a gnome settlement nearby, the timing has been excellent. I look forward to thoroughly documenting the species in my journal this evening."

Dipper almost wanted to swoon. Mabel may have teased him relentlessly about it being a date, but he was honestly starting to wish it was. Ford was… so different. Intelligent, capable, and he had an interest in the mystical world of Gravity Falls, plus he was doing that as an actual  _career_. A part of him hoped he was younger than Stan, because  _gosh_. Even if he wasn't, it wouldn't matter too much. Dipper didn't care about his age as long as he wasn't ancient. "I'm sure the gnomes will be happy to let us observe them," he said with a light laugh, sounding a little distant and daydreamy. Would it be weird if he asked him his age? Probably. "We're getting close to where we saw them."

At that, Ford cracked open his journal and began scribbling notes into it, peering around the forest as if documenting every detail down to each leaf on the tree. He muttered to himself as he worked, small hums escaping him, and Dipper wasn't sure if it'd be rude if he spoke — he didn't want to interrupt Ford's train of thought.

So he stayed silent as they walked, stealing shy glances at the scientist. How was this dreamy man not in a stable relationship? If it were Dipper, he wouldn't have let him go. It wasn't coming from a place of possessiveness, but rather one of loneliness and the desire to have somebody who  _understood_.

"You said the gnomes were here?" Ford asked, glancing up from the journal.

"Yep," Dipper confirmed. "They uh, were right there." He pointed to a spot on the ground a few feet away. "The leader one–Jeff?–yelled up at us to get our attention."

While Dipper was still speaking, Ford walked forward at a faster clip toward the spot indicated, seemingly searching the area for any signs of life. "Perhaps we should wait a while to see if they'll approach."

He tried to follow Ford's gaze around the area, wondering if he was trying to spot one of the gnomes. "We can set up a makeshift camp. I know how to build a shelter and make a fire from just the forest around us!" Despite what Mabel had said to him, he was convinced his skills would come in handy soon.

Momentarily stopping to look at him, Ford's eyebrows hitched in surprise, "You.. you've read 'The Manly Man's Guide to Outdoor Living' as well?"

"Yes!" Dipper's face lit up. "I thought I was the only one! Mabel thought it was a load of bogus, but I found it to be highly informational!" He was struggling to find the right term for the article, but it seemed close enough. He could use larger words too! Ford would be impressed, right?

With a nod, he agreed, "It is an informative article, but I don't believe we'll need to employ its tips. We can simply… sit," he lowered himself to the ground, adding a couple notes to the journal once he was comfortably seated, "and wait."

Oh. Feeling deflated as he wondered if Ford had been subtly trying to correct him, Dipper hoped he didn't mind his stupidity...

Being told it wasn't necessary was crushing to Dipper. Of all the people he thought would allow him to build a shelter, he thought it'd be Ford. "Okay," he said quietly as he joined Ford on the ground.

* * *

The Shack had quickly vanished in the distance, and Mabel watched as the trees seemingly flew by. Gideon was beside her, being creepy as usual as he called her 'my queen' and batted his eyelashes, and Bill idly chatting away. To himself via the rearview mirror.

She realized he wasn't wearing an eyepatch anymore unlike yesterday, and both eyes seemed perfectly normal. Strange.

After about twenty or thirty minutes of driving, Bill had dropped them off at a nicer restaurant with instructions to be ready to leave in an hour, and when she'd asked what happened if they finished eating sooner, he'd shrugged, then winked and said they could figure out a way to waste time. He'd left with a word of advice to Gideon: "Oh, and Pentagram? Remember, if you're going to get violent the best time is to that is during the appetizers! Okay, bye!" His window had rolled up and he hit the gas, his car propelling into the bright horizon of the sunset. Mabel liked to think he ended up on the side of the road again, smoke billowing out of his overheated vehicle.

Inside the building, Mabel was amazed to find it was more upscale than anywhere she'd been before, though it could've been a lack of experience since she could count the amount of times their parents had taken her and Dipper out to eat on one hand.

They'd been seated almost immediately (as Gideon had simply given his name to the host) and their appetizer had come and gone, thankfully without any violence. It seemed to be going well, and Mabel was excitedly awaiting her main course. The atmosphere was stuffy while the food was fancy, but it good nonetheless! She could do without Gideon licking his lips at her, though...

Or referring to her while using some creepy term of endearment. It was like he already wanted to marry her, the way he'd been swooning all night and speaking of a future together.

Between his over-the-top compliments and her half-hearted replies, she could hear a conversation at a nearby table growing louder amongst its occupants.

"Pacifica Elise Northwest," said a male's voice, "how  _dare_  you hold your fork so crudely." Northwest? Wasn't that similar to the name of the statue in the town square? Mabel didn't have a chance to dwell on the familiarity, as the verbal punishment continued. "We have a reputation to uphold and you are bringing shame to our family name with your carelessness. Hold it properly  _right now_  young lady," his voice lowered dangerously, but if Mabel strained she could still hear: "or I'll get the bell."

"Y-yes, Father," obediently replied the young teenager who must've been Pacifica, Mabel noted. She watched as the elaborately-dressed blonde scrambled to correct her mistake, looking ashamed of herself.

"And correct your posture at once!"

Her spine snapped and her shoulders were thrown back, entire body straightening instantly.

Her own date forgotten, Mabel had enough. Who was this man, thinking he could order someone around when they were clearly uncomfortable? "Uh, hi, excuse me," she said as she got up from her chair and approached the table of three, leaving Gideon looking shocked at the table. "How  _dare_  you tell her how to hold her fork and sit! There was nothing wrong with what she was doing–"

The older woman, likely the man's wife, made a startled, disgusted noise. "As Northwests, we take great pride in our manners, which Pacifica apparently has none of, as she's demonstrated this evening."

"The only ones without manners here are you and the old man!" She thrusted her finger in the man's face. "You're the ones bringing shame to your family  _and_  this restaurant's reputation! I should bring out the bell on you two!" She didn't know what the bell was, but if they were going to try to threaten using it on Pacifica, she'd use it right back!

It was hard not to feel sympathetic. Pacifica was staring down at her lap, cheeks red, and Mabel wondered if she was going to cry since it certainly appeared like she was on the verge. Her hands balled into fists at the sight, how  _dare_ her parents…

"Young lady!" the male snapped. He rose from the table with his hands firmly grasping the tablecloth, towering over her. "Who do you think you are, disrupting our family outing?"

Before she had a chance to reply, she heard Gideon's small, nervous chuckle from beside her and realized he must have gotten up. "Mr. Northwest, don't mind my darling peach. Mabel didn't mean all that," he said, taking her hand.

"Oh yes I did!" Mabel didn't hesitate to shoot Gideon a murderous glare, pulling her hand away from his. Ignoring what he'd said, she responded to Mr. Northwest, "My name's Mabel, and I'm not afraid of you or your stupid mustache!"

"I could buy your entire family!" Mr. Northwest thundered. "I could make you our slave, peasant girl, and no one would even notice you were gone."

She could feel Gideon reaching for her hand again, trying to pull her away from the scene. "You're, ah, making a bit of a ruckus, my queen. Perhaps we should step outside for a lil' ol' moment and cool off a lick…"

Mabel once again plucked her hand free, almost hissing. "Stop it, Gideon! I know what I'm doing and if you don't like it, you can leave!" She was fully prepared to brawl with the Northwests if she needed to, and Gideon for that matter if he kept pushing her. "As for  _you_ , 'Mr.' Northwest, you might have money but that doesn't mean you have power. If all you can do is try to pull the 'I could own you' card, that just shows how stupid and mean you are!"

She would've said more, but Gideon had gotten a grip around her wrist and was dragging her away. "Hey, stop it Gideon! I said stop!"

He only let go once they were outside, an apologetic expression on his face. "Mabel, I wish I could have been more of a gentleman about that, but… see, the Northwests are the wealthiest family in Gravity Falls." Gideon gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "And considering my reputation... it would make things stickier than a bear in a beehive if my beautiful date was pickin' a fight with them."

Mabel crossed her arms, glaring at him. "You only care about your appearance, then. That poor girl was getting berated over her posture and how she held a fork, they  _threatened_  her, and you're trying to play me off as the bad guy for standing up for her." She couldn't do this if this was what he was like. When they met, she thought he was funny and charming, but… she wouldn't stand by because of  _appearance_  when someone was in need. "Gideon, I don't think this is going to work."

He looked stunned for a moment, face shifting to one of desperation. "But, my sweet, realize what you're sayin'. You're my perfect match," when his words hadn't seemed to hit the mark he'd intended, he whined, "...my soulmate!"

"No, Gideon. We're not perfect, and we're not soulmates. I can't be with someone who cares more about his reputation than other people. We're done."

Gideon sputtered, blinking. "You ...you can't break up with lil ol' me! You're making the biggest mistake of your life!"

"I can and I have! It's over, and I don't regret a thing!" She stomped her foot into the ground determinedly. "Goodbye, Gideon." She turned to go back into the restaurant.

She could hear him call after her, "I'll make sure you love me if it's the last thing I do, Mabel!"

Yeah, no. She was glad she was getting out of  _that_  and dodging the pudgy, baby blue bullet that was Gideon, but now she was left without a ride back. Inside, she approached the host and after receiving approval, she located the telephone and asked the operator to put her through to the Mystery Shack.

"You've reached Stan Pines," groaned the voice, "who's this?"

"Stannn," she whined as the call went through, hearing the click of connection. "I need a ride."

"What, did Bill's car overheat again?"

"No, things just didn't go well with the date. I dumped Gideon outside." She could hear him laugh.

"That's my girl! Where are ya? I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Um," she hesitated as she looked around for the name. "I think it's called The Club."

"Wow, he really decided to take ya for a treat. See ya soon, sweetie."

"See you, Stan!" That took care of that. She wondered if she'd still get her main course, even though the date was off. Gideon would get the bill, wouldn't he?

Placing the phone back on the receiver, Mabel turned to go back to her table when she jumped at the sight of Pacifica standing behind her. "Oh, I didn't see you, ...but hi!"

She looked nervous, casting a glance over her shoulder, but her parents were out of view. "I have to make this quick, but I just wanted to thank you. You know, for standing up for me back there."

"It was nothing," Mabel said. "You don't have to thank me. I couldn't stand around while they were being jerks to you." She'd have done it for anyone.

Pacifica let out a laugh, but there was no joy in it. Her gaze fell to the floor. "My parents are kind of unbearable, aren't they." It wasn't even a question as far as Mabel could tell.

Mabel couldn't argue with that. "They don't appreciate what they have!"

At first, Pacifica appeared confused, as if completely perplexed by the possibility that Mabel was referring to her. "Well, they do take their money for granted... I don't think they personally earned a cent of the family fortune."

"I was talking about you, silly." Mabel booped her nose.

"Oh," Pacifica replied, and Mabel could see the beginnings of a blush on her cheeks beneath the makeup. "I should be getting back to them before they…" she trailed off, shaking her head. "I should go."

Aw. "Will I see you around?" She asked. Pacifica seemed a lot nicer than her parents.

"I… I don't know, but I need to leave." Pacifica didn't say anything more and didn't give Mabel a chance to either as she was already gone, disappearing into the restaurant.

* * *

"Unbelievable, simply unbelievable…" Ford murmured to himself as he walked, Dipper beside him. His attention rested on his journal page, now complete with many drawings of gnomes, notes about the species, and a surprise — he hadn't expected they would be celebrating their Festival of the Mushrooms this evening.

It had been a magnificent opportunity to watch them in their natural state, observing their interactions with each other and behavioral characteristics. Ford was elated to have been able to obtain such invaluable research, his frantic note-taking and thinking aloud easily demonstrated that.

Finishing up a doodle of a mushroom, he looked to Dipper. "We'll have to return to the area to collect samples of the mushrooms soon," he said in reference to the ones used during the gnomes' festival. "I believe they may contain magical properties and would be worth studying in a laboratory setting."

Dipper had been scribbling down notes as they headed back to the Mystery Shack, sketching his own drawings of the gnomes consuming the mushrooms and how their bodies had seemed to react to them, which added to his suspicions that they were more than mere food or ritualistic objects.

"Wouldn't it be better to collect samples now?" Dipper asked him. "In case something happens and they're not there anymore?"

It gave Ford pause, but only for a moment before he shook his head. "Ah, but we wouldn't want to alert them to our presence." He was concerned that gnomes would cease their traditions if they knew humans had been watching and traversing the sacred grounds. "I imagine the samples will remain until tomorrow." Besides, they didn't have the proper tools to extract them with meticulousness; they didn't want to taint or touch them, especially if the magical properties were dangerous. What affected humans (and how it affected them) was vastly different from gnomes.

Dipper didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue with Ford's logic. "Okay," he said. "When will we going tomorrow? After work like today?" A pause interrupted his string of questions, but gave no chance for Ford to reply. "Do you think we'll see more gnomes again? I'm a little concerned about what'll happen if they spot us."

Bombarded by the onslaught of inquiries and babbling, he smiled nostalgically as he realized how much this curious, excitable teenager reminded him of a younger version of himself. He'd been enjoying his company, relishing in the chance to pass on his knowledge to someone who didn't call him crazy, belittle his work, or otherwise act dismissively.

Interacting with Dipper was like looking in a funhouse mirror because the image was similar, just slightly twisted in some spots, but he nevertheless enjoyed the kid's company. He saw why Stan was fond of them.

Mind traveling back to Dipper's questions, he recalled a peculiar assumption among them: that Dipper would be joining him on future excursions. While his original plan was to enlist Dipper as a travel guide to determine the gnome's location, it seemed he wanted more out of this.

Well, he supposed there was no harm in it… especially since he was recently left without an assistant. Dipper's job wouldn't be nearly as rigorous, if he was interested, but it would be rather nice to have someone to share ideas and conduct research with.

Or get his morning coffee, something Fiddleford hadn't been able to consistently handle anyway. But he'd been more than capable of spilling it on their month's worth of work… Ford suppressed a groan, both at himself and at his former assistant — he'd been trying to get better at forgiving mistakes, but this wound was fresh.

The offer hadn't even been extended yet, and Ford found himself fretting that Dipper wouldn't  _want_ to work with him.

Without answering any of the questions he'd been asked, he figured he should say it now rather than later. "Dipper," he started, stealing a glance at the notes the teen had taken, "I admire the high quality of your work, and… while I know you are likely busy with your position in the Mystery Shack, I'm currently without an assistant. Perhaps—"

Dipper's eyes lit up. "Oh, gosh, I'd love to be your assistant!"

"Slow down," he laughed softly. "First and foremost, you're still Stan's employee. I was going to ask if you'd assist me on a part-time basis, whenever it so aligns that my research and your position in the Shack aren't in conflict."

Hyperventilating with his hand clutched over his chest, the younger male was reduced to leaning over as he wheezed while Ford watched through worried eyes. "That… that sounds great!"

For the second time that evening, he felt compelled to ask, "Are you alright?" The way he doubled over in pain wasn't reassuring. His posture and hand motions—clutching desperately at his chest—reminded Ford of a rather gruesome human sacrifice ritual historically performed in Aztec culture.

"I'm good! Just… excited!"

He blinked in confusion, usually attributing excitement to smiles and joy rather than… heart extraction. "Oh. I see." After keeping his gaze on Dipper for a couple more seconds (to ensure he was, in fact, okay), he continued, "Our first outing will be tomorrow, and I will fetch you when your assistance is required." Mushroom collection awaited them.

It seemed Dipper still couldn't contain his excitement, his hyperventilating intensifying. "Sounds good! I can't wait. I wonder why the gnomes are so obsessed with these mushrooms."

Although he was just as curious about the mushrooms and felt eager to begin researching them, he ignored that for now because he was growing increasingly concerned with Dipper's erratic, near-panting breathing pattern. "Shall we stop walking for a while?"

"No!" His voice raised an octave through his wheezing. "I-I'm okay, really."

Stan was going to kill him if this kid passed out, but he relented and kept onward. Luckily, they weren't far from the Shack. "Potential traditions aside, I suppose if the mushrooms do contain magical properties… they may simply be indulging themselves." Pleasure wasn't a concept strictly confined to humans, all animals craved that rush.

Dipper's breathing was slowly returning to normal. "Indulging themselves…? Would the mushrooms have a drug-like effect on them?" he asked.

"Possibly, but I'd prefer to avoid jumping to conclusions."

"O-oh right, of course! I knew that."

Their discussion fell into a silence when Ford didn't reply, and Dipper shuffled uncomfortably. As they neared the Shack, he spoke. "So, uh, Ford? How old are you anyway?" What a bizarre question. Not that he minded, necessarily, but it was unexpected.

"Twenty-four," he said. It was tempting to give Dipper a skeptical look to decipher where he was going with this conversation, but he remained expressionless. Additionally, he supposed he could have mentioned that his and Stan's birthday was tomorrow but decided against it, knowing Stan didn't care for birthday surprises. He wasn't a fan either.

"Oh, so not that old! Maybe I still have a chance!" Dipper's voice was a moonstruck mutter, albeit not quiet.

At that, he couldn't help himself—his eyebrows shot up. Had Dipper meant to say that aloud? He was puzzled, unsure of what was intended by the comment but worked to sort through it. Ford thought they'd already settled the assistance business, did Dipper wish to be his apprentice as well? Was that what he'd meant? That was a bit extreme, and early considering his career had just begun, but...

"Are you younger than Stan then?"

"We're twins." And  _technically_ , he was older. An unimportant detail in this discussion, but he did find amusement in throwing that in Stan's face from time to time since it seemed to aggravate him.

Speaking (well, thinking) of Stan, he wondered what he was up to as they stepped onto the porch of the Mystery Shack. Tours were over for the day and employees had gone home, so his bet was on the television.

"Are you, um, seeing anybody? I know you had a thing with uh, Fiddleford…" Dipper shifted his weight between his feet, gaze finding interest in the ground as he stole small glances at Ford.

"Ah," he coughed, adjusting his glasses, "you know about that?" In retrospect, he was a bit ashamed of the relationship, particularly how it'd ended, and if Ford's mind wasn't busy working overtime as he tried to measure where this conversation was headed, he would've commended Dipper's observation skills. As far as he knew, Dipper and Fiddleford had never crossed paths… maybe Stan had mentioned something to him?

The sound of the door being thrown open made Dipper jump, and he nearly hid behind Ford for protection. Stan's sharp brown gaze was on the small teenager, almost glowering in nature. "Alright, time to go get ready for dinner, kiddo! You're not going anywhere dressed like ya just rolled in mud. Change your clothes then get in the car! We're getting Mabel, then goin' out to eat! Ford, you're coming with us."

Ford watched as Dipper scampered away to change his clothes at Stan's request, though he was still at a loss. Shifting his attention to his brother, he questioned, "I thought Mabel had a date?" He recalled hearing about it in passing, and his eyebrows knitted. "Does a standard date no longer include a meal…?"

It had been a long time since he'd been on one. He couldn't remember the last time, unless going out to a malt shop with Stan once or twice as teenagers counted…

"It didn't work out for the poor sweetie. Gideon," he almost spat his name, "ended up getting dumped outside The Club. Good riddance, I say! She's too good for that little booger."

The Club? Despite what Dipper had said (perhaps unintentionally), he felt old, chalking up his lack of knowledge to age instead of the very obvious problem: rarely leaving the Mystery Shack. "That's a shame," he commented.

"Nah, it's a blessin'. Last thing we need is that shit going about with 'my queen', 'my honeysuckle', 'my publicity stunt.' He's an ass and she'll get someone much better."

"I hope so. She's a lovely girl." If this wasn't proof enough, Ford knew Stan was fond of the children he'd taken in, and honestly, he was beginning to sympathize. They probably weren't hardened home invaders, especially Dipper with his wheezing…

That reminded him. "Are you going to yell at me to change my clothes as well?" he teased dryly, not quite understanding why Stan had sent Dipper away when his clothing hadn't seemed muddy at all.

Stan gazed at him, eyes sweeping over his form. "You look good as you are, darlin'. Could use less clothes, though."

Ford gave him a warning glance. "Stanley, don't." There were a multitude of reasons why flirting like that was a terrible idea. They were out in the open, Dipper could return any second… and he had yet to make up his mind on the matter. He'd been trying to avoid the issue as long as Stan would allow him before forcing a confrontation.

"What ya gonna do, Sixer?" Stan's voice had dropped. "Make me?" He winked at him as he moved to pass him, his hand playfully smacking his ass. "Tight like I 'member it bein'," he commented as he descended the porch and headed toward the red El Diablo.

Grip tightening on the journal in his hands, Ford felt so ashamed, so annoyed with himself because he fucking  _squeaked_ when Stan's hand connected with him. He didn't even have the courage to turn and face Stan after that, fully aware he was probably drinking all of this in with a sadistic delight.

He couldn't believe his body's betrayal. He was a scientist, sophiscated, college-educated. Polite and professional. Yes. But he couldn't handle it when Stan slapped his rear end, and now he was just standing there like a deer in the headlights.

How embarrassing.

"You comin' Poindexter, or are ya gonna be a buzz-kill?"

There was no trying to escape going out to eat anymore, he knew Stan wouldn't let him. Wordlessly, Ford trailed after and paused near the El Diablo to consider his options, wondering which seat he should take. Hands clasping behind his back, Ford kicked at the dust. "You… probably would prefer to have Dipper in the passenger seat?"

Stan patted the seat beside him. "I'd like it if your sweet ass took shotgun, actually."

"Oh." Ford didn't know if it was to spite Stan, but he started to move to the rear door instead and sat down in the back. It was just so  _easy_ and comfortable to slip into old, playful habits with Stan. He was certain that he came across as stern and serious with everyone else, but that was okay — this teasing behavior, joking around, that was for the one person closest to him.

"Hm, playing hard to get again. I can get on board with that."

Ford raised an eyebrow. "According to recent reports, the passenger seat is statistically the most dangerous place in the car," he informed Stan. A small smile threatened to break through his stony expression. "It's merely an added bonus that I don't have to sit next to you if I'm in the back."

Stan narrowed his eyes. "Uh huh. I'm sure the kid'll be happy to know you'd rather he die because you didn't want to sit beside me."

"Ah, yes. He can sit in the back with me as well if he wishes."

"Then who's taking passenger?"

"I realize you failed your physics course, but even you should know the car isn't going to tip over if nobody is sitting in the passenger seat."

"Oh, hardy-har-har. Don't make me go back there," Stan threatened. He glanced outside the vehicle when Dipper approached, instantly taking the passenger seat when he saw Ford in the back.

"Are these clothes better?" Dipper asked, directing the question to Stan. "And where are we going?"

Stan didn't look. "They don't look muddy, so they're fine. We're goin' to The Club to get Mabel then we're heading over to Greasy's Diner for dinner." He didn't wait for a response, throwing the El Diablo into drive and hitting the gas.

* * *

Laying on his bed, Dipper yawned as he finished writing in his journal about the day's outing with Ford, his thoughts on the experience comprising a small section underneath his notes on the gnomes.

Writing eased his mind, spilling his experiences onto the page helped him wind down after a long day and recollect himself.

About to close the journal and put the pen aside, he realized Mabel hadn't told him about the date yet. He knew it'd gone badly since he, Stan, and Ford picked her up from The Club and then had gone to Greasy's Diner, but they hadn't had time to delve into the specifics.

He glanced to Mabel, who he could see was awake and looking at the ceiling through the dim light from the old lamp propped atop the nightstand. "Hey, Mabel," he spoke. "You never did tell me about that date." If it had been a complete catastrophe, he wouldn't force her to talk, but to his surprise… she'd seemed rather upbeat tonight. Too upbeat for someone who'd been super excited about a date only to break up in the middle of it, but then again, this was Mabel.

"Oh!" Mabel said. "I thought I did! Gideon turned out to be a creepy jerk. There was a girl named Pacifica who was being yelled at by her parents–"

"Wait, slow down. What was wrong with Gideon?" From what Mabel had said about him (until now), one would think he was an angel sent from the heavens above, the perfect human being incapable of doing wrong.

Her expression soured. "The whole night he kept… calling me these weird terms of endearment, like his 'queen', and talking about our future together."

Scrambling to write down the gist of what she'd shared, he paused to make a face. "And I thought Bill calling me 'cutie' was bad." That made him realize he should probably add the encounter with Bill into his journal, though it'd been some haphazard mix of embarrassing and annoying.

"He also put his appearance as a 'celebrity' over helping someone in need and told me  _I_ was making a scene and needed to stop before I ruined his reputation."

"Wow," he frowned. "It sounds like he wasn't a decent guy to begin with, and… it's probably for the best, y'know? He showed you his true colors before you wasted any more time with him."

"Yep! I dumped him outside and he yelled at me about how I'd regret it. Speaking of outside, why did Stan drag you out of the diner earlier?"

Dipper shuddered as he remembered that. It'd been after they placed their orders with the waitress and he'd asked Ford a question about his research, Stan had pulled him aside to have a chat… he still had no idea what to make of their conversation:

"So, uh… why are we—?" he'd asked as he buried his hands into his pockets, the night air feeling cold against his flushed cheeks.

"Kid, what did I tell you about being around Ford?"

He'd been pretty sure his heart was going to bounce out of his chest from the way Stan's question jump started it, mind racing — had he overstepped a boundary? "Well, I know you said to stay away from him but then we were having dinner together yesterday and it seemed okay so I thought—" Dipper had rambled, "and ..and you said it was fine if I showed him the location of the gnomes, that's what we were doing when you came out of the Shack…"

"I said stay away from him! I don't care if I gave you permission to help him out  _once_ , I don't want you near him!" Stan's voice rose slightly. "You understand, kid? He's not good to be around, and I'd hate to have to remove you from the premises for your own safety."

And he'd nodded, feeling choked.

Shaking the memory away, Dipper didn't know how to begin to explain to Mabel when he didn't quite get it himself. "I don't think Stan approves of me being around Ford, but he's just so  _smart_ and he wants me to help him with his research!" As his gushing tapered off, his expression fell, a sigh escaping as he added to the journal. "It's unfair."

Mabel offered, "Maybe you can talk to Ford about Stan? They're brothers, aren't they? He'll know what to do!"

"Yeah. Twins, like us." And the reason why he'd found that out, he… wasn't the most proud of. Maybe his infatuation was misplaced and more than rushed, but it was incredible to have someone with similar interests.

Trying to get  _that_ thought out of his head, he redirected the discussion to Mabel's date. "You never did finish telling me about, ah," he tried to recall the name, "Pacifica?"

Mabel smiled. "She was much nicer than Gideon or her gross parents! They were yelling at her over how she was holding her fork and her posture, and I stepped in and gave them a piece of my mind!"

Dipper laughed, aware Mabel always let her thoughts be known even when it involved complete strangers, but it seemed like she'd done a wonderful thing tonight. "That sounds like our parents." He wished someone had intervened, maybe it wouldn't have come to this.

But he supposed their situation could be far worse. Over the last couple days, he hadn't even thought about their original plan to go to the city nearby, he preferred the comfort of the Mystery Shack.

"Our parents never threatened us with a bell," she said. "Pacifica seemed really scared of it."

"A… bell?"

Mabel could only shrug. "That's what they brought up when she wasn't meeting their dumb expectations." That was concerning, but Mabel went on, "I liked her a lot. I wish I knew when I could see her next..."

"Why don't you call her? The operator should know who that is, being in a small town and all," Dipper suggested since he knew Mabel wouldn't reject an opportunity for a new friendship. "If you do, maybe at least one good thing will come out of your trainwreck of a date." Gideon had turned out to be a disaster, he could see why Stan disliked him.

"That's a great idea Dipper!" For a moment, she looked like she wanted to pounce on him and wrap him into a hug. "I'll call her first thing tomorrow!"

He smiled, closing the journal to store it on the nightstand. "Tomorrow, I'll ask Ford about what Stan said to me, too." His hand hovered over the switch of the table lamp, peering questioningly to Mabel as he wondered if he should kill the power and engulf them in darkness. "Are you ready to sleep?" It was getting late by now, definitely past midnight, though he didn't bother glancing at the clock.

"I could sleep for a year!" She confirmed.

There was a simple click, and they were in the dark. The only noise was an owl hooting outside, the Shack's familiar and near-constant creaking of wood, and the shuffling of blankets as Dipper tried to get comfortable.

"Goodnight, Mabel."

"Goodnight, Dipper!"

* * *

After returning from the diner, Stan spent the majority of the night watching television in his armchair, enjoying reruns of  _The Twilight Zone_ ,  _Hogan's Heroes,_ and  _Bonanza_ as they played on the black-and-white screen. The hours flew by with every episode, and he was fairly sure he'd fallen asleep a few times, but it was a surprise to find it was past midnight when he finally glanced at a clock.

Their birthday was here, Stan realized. It had been on his mind throughout the day intermittently, but he didn't think it'd arrive so soon. He felt  _old_. Twenty-five with a couple of teenage kids and maybe Ford, if things worked out.

Pushing himself from his seat and hearing bones crack as he stretched, the first thing he did was head into the kitchen to retrieve the blueberry pie he'd purchased at Greasy's Diner after their meal. How the others didn't notice (especially Mabel) that he stashed it in the trunk was beyond him.

Pie in hand, he went toward Ford's room. His brother had locked himself in when they arrived, and Stan didn't have to be a genius to deduce he was probably being a dork. Typical.

He didn't bother knocking on the door, instead opening it to the sight of Ford at the desk, nose buried in a massive textbook. "Gross," he commented, startling Ford, who jumped at the sound of a sudden intruder in his space. "I can feel the nerdiness from over here. It radiates off you, bookworm."

Craning his neck to look at the doorway where he stood, Ford said, "Oh. It's you."

He'd do Ford a favor and ignore that flat tone just because it was their birthday. He owed him one.

"Surpies!" He raised the pie up, fighting hard not to laugh at his own pun. "Happy birthday, Sixer!"

He could see the beginnings of a smile on Ford's lips, his brother always had enjoyed wordplay. "Happy birthday to you too, Stanley." He closed the textbook, stacking it with the others on the desk. "How long have you been s _pie-_ ingon me?"

"About two seconds. Can't spy on ya too long or I'll meet an un-piesant demise from all the geekiness."

"I get the  _filling_ you don't have a lot of  _crust_ in me."

Tired of holding back, Stan finally cracked up. He missed having moments like these with Ford. After the accident seven years ago… it felt like they were scarce, too far and few inbetween to even matter or come close to repairing a broken relationship. "Sixer, have I ever told ya you're pretty great?"

"No," he appeared to consider something, biting at his lip, "but I've been under the impression that was implied through your various sexual passes directed at me."

"You like it," Stan insisted. If Ford didn't, Stan knew he wouldn't have gotten away with his flirtations the way he currently did. He wore his heart on his sleeve, so any true resistance would've been obvious. "Besides, I didn't mean it like that, though it's nice to know you've been thinkin' of my advances."

Ford ignored him, his eyes flicking to the pie. "Is that for us?"

For a genius, he sure seemed dense sometimes. "No, clearly it's for the kids. I was just showing you this delicious blueberry pie." His tone was dry as he moved into the room to set the pie on the desk, leaning over the wooden structure as he placed the food on an empty space. In all the clutter, it was amazing one existed. "Of course it's for us, Sixer."

Leaning forward to look at the pie, his brother's eyes narrowed in meticulous examination. "Is it of your own creation?" he asked. He could think of nothing more inherently  _Ford_ than scrutinizing a baked good while any normal individual would've already been diving in to eat it.

"I bought it from Greasy's. Why?" Stan straightened up, glancing at Ford in confusion. Why'd it matter? Pie was pie.

"I'm simply wondering how you still managed to get your hair in it."

He scowled. "I did no such thing!" Glancing at the pie, he made a move to brush off some of the hair sticking out of the top.

Ford's expression flickered between amusement and disgust, and he commented, "Subtle, Stan. Now, did you bring utensils?" Rising from the chair, he began opening the drawers of one of his filing cabinets, speaking as he did so, "If not, I'm certain I have some around here somewhere… It's quite inefficient to venture into the kitchen whenever I have to eat."

"Who needs utensils? We have hands for a reason, Poindexter." So maybe he forgot forks. And plates. Big deal! They had the pie tin and they had hands. Ford even had extra fingers to dig in with!

"It's a mystery to me how you have flown under evolution's radar for twenty-five years," he sighed, then produced two forks from one of the cabinets only to snatch the pie from the desk, placing it on the coffee table instead. Motioning to the couch, he commanded, "Sit."

Stan laughed. "Evolution can take a hike! I'm bein'  _practical_ , Sixer. If ya don't got utensils, you always have fingers on hand."

He could see the moment of amusement and appreciation that crossed on Ford's face. Take that, Sixer — he may have barely scraped by in English class, but he could be clever with his words too. "The term you're looking for is 'primitive'."

"I'll show you primitive," he threatened. "I can take those pretty eyes out!" By throwing the pie in his face!

"Here," Ford said, handing him a fork before beginning to cut away a piece of the dessert, "and do try to avoid going full Neanderthal on me as you enjoy your pie."

Stan grumbled as he took a seat beside his brother, back to feeling like the mentally inferior one. He wasn't primitive, damn it! And he didn't even know what a Neandrathing was! "I should shove some pie down your throat," he muttered as he shoved a forkful into his mouth.

Aside from a barely-noticeable, fleeting grin, he didn't receive any response from Ford as they ate in silence for a couple minutes, the blueberry pie quickly disappearing until there was a bit more than a quarter remaining. "Are you prepared for the obligatory birthday call from our parents later?" Ford asked as he set his fork down and folded his hands in his lap delicately, stealing a glance at him.

"Hell no, I'm not talkin' to either of them." How could he, after they betrayed him by kicking him out? It wasn't like Pops would give a damn anyway, considering how much he hated him.

His brother's gaze seemed to soften, tiptoeing on the edge of sad. "They miss you." It was coaxing, like Stan was a child and Ford was trying to make him understand. Well, he didn't want any part in that.

"Doubt it." He took another bite of the pie angrily, fork digging into the crust and fruity filling with a vengeance.

"They always ask to speak with you when they call."

Stan snorted. "Probably to tell me how unimpressed he is."

"That's extremely impractical," he pointed out. "He wouldn't bother if he just wanted to tell you that. And what about Ma?"

"Ya mean the woman who just watched me get thrown out? Didn't say anythin' to help me?" Stan's gaze drifted to the photograph of their mother on Ford's wall, a scowl settling on his expression even as he looked away again. "I don't got nothin' to say to them."

That seemed to crush any further protests from Ford. While he looked like he wished to say more, he'd merely turned back to the pie and let silence fill the space between them.

His head was lowered past his shoulders, hands still resting in his lap but now fidgeting slightly. He looked defeated, but Stan wasn't convinced he truly understood when he was just dodging the fight.

Stan determined that he didn't want to focus on the past right now. He wanted to enjoy the day with his brother, even if they just lounged around.

Clearing his throat, Stan set his fork down as he finished the last of the pie. "So Sixer, what do ya want to do today?" There was a trace of hope in the question, wondering if Ford would actually want to spend time with him; it was a long shot since the past week had been a rocky one, but there was  _progress_  because Ford had spent the better part of a year hardly talking to him as he lived in the Shack. Ignoring him was much less favorable than interaction, even if they'd had ups and downs.

"I have to work." It was a plain statement, as if that was what Ford's life had been reduced to. Science. Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

Yawn.

"C'mon Sixer," he nudged him. "This only comes once a year for us, and this is the first time we've been together since we were kids. You didn't come up from your hidey-hole last year. Wouldn't even speak to me." He could put off one day of work.

"Fiddleford and I were buried in projects last year and we hardly had time to rest, much less celebrate a birthday." He reclined into the couch, gaze raising to the ceiling in thought. "Twenty-five seems a bit old to be engaging in wild parties anyway, not that those have ever been my cup of tea."

Stan gave him a sad look but didn't want to come across as desperate. He didn't  _need_ Ford, he told himself, he was giving Ford an opportunity to rekindle this. "I'm not askin' for a party, Poindexter. I just wanna spend some quality time with my brother for once." Why was he being so difficult again? It wasn't like Stan wanted anything big this year.

The corners of Ford's lips twitched downward, and movement near the bottom of his line of sight suggested his brother was preoccupied with wringing his hands together. "Is that not what we're doing now?"

"It is, but if it were up to ya we'd have been done with this discussion and you've be off in the basement again bein' nerdy."

"I'm perfectly capable of going to the basement right now if I didn't wish to talk to you." He guessed that was one way to be reassuring, though he didn't know if he was supposed to feel relieved or not. How kind of Ford to offer his lukewarm comfort but eh, it was better than nothing and he'd take what he could get when it seemed Ford outright hated him on occasion. "To be honest, I hadn't realized you even knew where my room was."

"This is my house! Of course I know where it is!" Just because he didn't come down here didn't mean he was stupid! He'd provided the blueprints to build it! Besides, it was a layout they were both familiar with, resembling their childhood creations from Lincoln Logs.

A dismissive, six-fingered hand waved away the thought, and Ford seemed to return to a previous topic. "What do you propose we do? To, ah, celebrate our shared birthday, that is."

Well… Stan hadn't given it much thought. "Nothin' special," he said. "Just want to talk with you, I guess. Catch up, ya know?"

"You predict that will take an entire day? Quite frankly, I'm not sure what we'd discuss. My research, my… recent breakup?" he emitted a breathless laugh at the idea, though it didn't sound happy. "I hope you've arranged to forfeit the rest of your whiskey if that's what you had in mind."

Stan sighed. "I wasn't planning on talking about Nerdleford with ya, and you're not goin' near my whiskey again! I haven't recovered from the damages of your raid!"

"Oh, I apologize for hindering your alcohol abuse. Forgive me." It was dripping with sarcasm and topped off with an eyeroll, but Ford adopted a more teasing tone as he continued, "I would drink regularly too if I happened to be the proprietor of the fakest attraction in town." Snickering under his breath, he gave him a light, playful shove.

Glad Ford was finally letting his guard down, Stan lightly shoved him back. "I only drink what's necessary. Just 'cause my blood happens to be mostly booze, doesn't mean I have a drinkin' problem!" He briefly paused. "Spendin' a day chattin' with me can't be that horrible of an idea though, can it? We haven't had a real catch-up in years."

"We didn't have a need for one. We were together most of the time—at school, at home—and always knew what was going on with each other." By the time Ford finished speaking, there was a hint of a waver to his voice as if he felt wistful over the past, or perhaps the present.

"It's been almost eight years," Stan reminded him, "since we were that close." And Stan missed it. He missed everything about how close they used to be. "When was the last time you knew everythin' goin' on with me?"

"I have a solid idea of your daily life, Stan. You conduct tours and operate the Mystery Shack as its sole owner." When he stopped talking, it seemed Ford's confidence in his answer teetered a bit, and he added, "I know you go street racing with Bill occasionally, and… as far as I'm aware, you are not currently pursuing any romantic prospects."

Stan frowned at Ford, disappointed by his answer on his romantic relationships. "Did you already forget what we talked about the other night? About  _us_?" Hearing that gutted Stan, as it suggested Ford hadn't taken him seriously or considered the possibility of a continuation of  _them_ — he'd laid all his feelings out so plainly, a bold and risky move, and he'd been brushed off as a result?

Ford balked, like he hadn't been expecting that. "Stanley, we're… that's—" he sputtered, his words trying to gain traction but failing, "I haven't  _forgotten_ , but understand that we're not foolish teenagers anymore. We cannot seriously engage in a romantic relationship with one another."

He scowled, growing frustrated with Ford, and the kids, and  _everything_. He had been so close to kissing Ford that night before they were interrupted, to mending their relationship, and now after being forced to wait on the decision for over a day, he was trying to back out?

"Sixer," he said quietly, moving closer and placing his hand on his thigh. He could feel the muscles tense underneath, knowing he had to tread carefully since Ford appeared ready to bolt. "You can't say you don't have any remaining feelings. Teenagers or not, we were  _meant_  to be together."

He didn't say it aloud, but their connection was obvious to him when they'd spent seventeen years together, inseparable. Ford knew him better than anyone, and whether his brother chose to recognize it or not, he knew Ford — his quirks, his fears, his desires, how he'd react in any given situation, everything about him. They'd always been on the same wavelength, birds of a feather, and they deserved this after being apart so long.

"You said we aren't close, at least not like we used to be. How can you be certain you want this?" His voice was guarded, but there was a fragility underneath that Stan desperately wanted to unearth. Ford couldn't keep shutting him out forever, he was a stubborn man and wouldn't stop until he'd torn down all the barriers between them.

"I can't get you out of my head," Stan said. "I want to be with you so  _fucking_  much, why do you keep fighting this? Me?"

The heartfelt confession seemed to momentarily render Ford wordless, his big eyes locked to Stan's as they searched him, looked through him. With his eyebrows angled upward and lips just barely parted, the innocently tender expression tempted Stan to reach out with his other hand and cup Ford's cheek, lean in until there was nothing between them...

But Ford seemed to remember something, snapping his eyes away a second before he shot off the couch to pace the room. Stan wanted to groan aloud. "Did… you speak to Dipper about Fiddleford and I?"

 _That's_  what he started thinking about? Stan could throttle him! "I told the kids to stay out of the basement, but it doesn't matter. If ya keep pacing like that I'm gonna fuckin' jump on you, Sixer."

He didn't even seem to hear the threat, too lost in the depths of his thoughts as per usual. "That's not what I'm referring to!" Ford fretted. "Dipper is aware of my previous relationship with him and mentioned it earlier, it was inconceivably strange."

"Yeah, I heard that little fucker tryna flirt with you." Stan still hadn't forgiven the kid and darkly thought about the conversation he'd had with him outside the diner in an attempt to steer Dipper away. Ford was  _his_.

Stan could see the instant panic and surprise on Ford's face, the sheer revelation. It was enough to make him stop wearing the floorboards down, thank god. "Ah, h-hm," he coughed, choking on his own words. " _What_? That… that was  _flirting_ —?"

He got to his feet to join Ford's side, taking his hand in his forcibly. "It was. Hopefully I scared it out of him…" even if he didn't, he could always kill the kid.

"Halley's Comet! I-I can't….  _seriously_? Dipper was— that was flirting?" he repeated as if he couldn't process it and inhaled raggedly, sounding injured as he fought to get it all out in one breath, "Are you absolutely, positively certain? He's… he's a  _child_ and perhaps we should ask, as I don't believe there is any possible way that he could have been attempting to initiate courting rituals between us, because after all we're barely acquaintances—"

"Ford." Stan's grip on him tightened, his brother falling into a hushed silence. " _Ford_. Look at me."

When their gazes connected, Stan could see the fear and vulnerability in his deep pupils, the shock gradually ebbing away. They were dilated and glassy, and Stan noted that he seemed afraid from how his eyes tried to avoid darting, and although he was quiet save for those little distressed, uncertain noises, Stan figured his mind was racing.

Well, he could put a halt on that.

Stan leaned in, quickly closing the distance between their lips as he wrapped his arms around his body, hands settling on the small of Ford's back. Slanting their mouths together, his lips moved against Ford's to encourage a response from him, craving the reciprocation that the kiss lacked. He'd be a rich man in no time if he could strike up the bet that Ford was completely consumed by his thoughts, probably anxiously mulling over why they shouldn't do this—how it was wrong—and trying to come up with an excuse to pull away. This time though, Stan wasn't giving him a chance to back out.

And although it was shy at first, he could feel Ford beginning to return it, relaxing in his grip and shakily placing his hands on Stan's shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his wifebeater. The familiarity sent shivers down his spine, and he had no clue how they'd gone without this for so long.

It was incredible how much he'd missed this—the sweetness of Ford's mouth, their bodies pressed together, and he was flooded with disappointment when they parted with a gentle  _plop_  noise.

Lidded eyes locked, they simply stayed that way for a second or two, maybe more. The exchange had been so brief, downright tantalizing, and he knew they both desired more.

"Stan…" Ford murmured, gazing at him through his eyelashes and still so close that Stan could feel the soft tendril of his strained exhale tease his skin.

"Did I take your breath away?" Stan teased gently, but planted another kiss on Ford's soft lips before he could respond. Although it started simple, the pressing burn to feel  _more_ encouraged him to deepen it, with Stan's tongue trying to part Ford's lips in order to gain entry to his mouth.

And Ford near-instantly responded by complying, giving him access and pushing their mouths together tighter as Stan's tongue slipped into his to feverishly explore it, swiping his tongue against Ford's in the process. It was like eating blueberry pie all over again, only it was faint and inherently yet intoxicatingly  _Ford_. The taste was familiar to him as well, though he swore there was an added hint of sharpness given how sassy Ford had become over the past couple years, and he found himself craving more. He'd been deprived of this for far too long.

Ford's tongue slid across his own with tentativeness, movements boldening as their mouths moved together in an increasingly heated kiss that caused an eruption of warmth and  _want_ in the pit of Stan's stomach. It was a perfect moment for Stan to lightly nip his tongue, sucking it into his own mouth.

The noise that'd began as a startled squeak morphed rapidly into a broken, wanton moan, the mere sound fueling his lust for Ford. He could feel Ford's hands move from digging his digits into his shoulder blades to tangling into his slicked hair, disheveling it, but that only encouraged him.

He was finding it hard to resist the urge to slide his hands down Ford's pants; however, he settled instead for reaching to grab his ass, kneading the plush skin through the fabric of his clothing. Tightly pressed against him, Stan could feel his body responding as Ford's hips gave a small buck forward from the grope. It'd be much better if his clothes were on the floor… or in the fireplace.

Ford always looked good without clothes.

With this in mind, Stan gradually directed Ford toward the couch and once they were close enough, allowed himself to fall onto the soft cushions, taking his brother down with him. Ford flailed for a second as they tumbled back together, both landing roughly with Ford on top of him now. Seizing an opportunity while Ford was too stunned to care, Stan stole a kiss, significantly more chaste and brief than the previous one.

Pulling back, he marveled at the look Ford gave him as his eyes fluttered open again. His lips were parted ever-so-slightly, cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and his lustrous eyes were dark with fervent desire — he was certain they mirrored his own. Even if he really hated him sometimes, Ford always did have a way of making him feel so very attractive when he was needy like this.

It was clear to him by now they were both aroused because if his expression didn't give that away, the bulge in the front of his slacks did, though Stan had the advantage of boxers instead of the constricting pants Ford wore. "You look a lil' uncomfortable Poindexter," he playfully commented, voice lower. "Let me help you out of some of those clothes."

Looking dazed and nodding his agreement, Ford retreated a bit to rest on his knees, trembling hands struggling to undo the snaps of his pants. Stan fought the urge to roll his eyes at the sight: one would assume having six fingers would make the process easier, but Jesus fucking Christ, it was like a preteen trying to awkwardly jack it for the first time.

"I told you I'd do it." Stan said as he sat upright and swatted Ford's hands away from his slacks in favor of undoing them himself, pulling them down enough to give them room to work. Now that Ford's dick wasn't in a state of uncomfortable and squished against restrictive attire, they could get on to something more exciting. Though the thought of removing Ford's shirt had crossed his mind, one look brought him to decide he wasn't going to bother with those buttons too — it was irritating enough that he'd been fully dressed a moment ago despite the time of night.

And besides, as much as he liked to gloat about Ford being the needy one here, he was craving it as well, too impatient to deal with excess clothing. He was filled with a sense of urgency to just touch, to feel and  _fuck_  until they were beyond spent, breathing hard.

Pushing Ford's body down, Stan pinned him against the couch while Ford was merely compliant to his dominance (old habits, he figured, there was no other way Ford would let him get away with it), licking and sucking and his teeth grazing the exposed skin of his brother's neck as his hand palmed at Ford's cock through his boxers. The contact elicited a strangled gasp, Ford's back arching gloriously into him. And as if that hadn't spurred him on enough, he could feel the wetness of tiny drops of precum already dampening the thin fabric of his shorts, and the thought of his eagerness made Stan's blood rush straight to his own dick.

"O-oh… oh god," he could hear Ford say through an exhale, feeling his body shudder beneath him, " _Stan_."

Impossibly hard, he ached to touch himself—relieve even an ounce of the discomfort—but resisted, wanting to bring Ford to his absolute edge. Make him crumble, completely wreck him until he was incapable of words.

So he continued to touch him, stroking his stiff cock through his boxers lightly, in a sense almost playing with him. Ford's pleaswere becoming frequent as they spilled from his lips, the noises steadily increasing in pitch and desperation. " _More_ ," he begged, hips twitching upward into the touch, "it… it feels so— so good, just," a sharp breath, "don't… you dare stop."

It wasn't that he didn't take delight in every wonderfully lustful cry that Ford emitted as he squirmed with pleasure, his glasses eskew, but Stan was growing impatient, sick and tired of waiting– he wanted Ford, just like he'd wanted him  _a decade ago_. Jacking him off to high heavens wasn't doing much for Stan physically, and he longed to feel his brother's tightness again. It'd be more intimate, more enjoyable for both of them, and well—

He really,  _really_ wanted to fuck Ford right through this goddamn couch after waiting forever.

Stan slowed his strokes of Ford's cock, a high-pitched whine laced with disappointment tumbling from Ford at the lack of relief, as Stan shuffled to pull his own boxers down, revealing his erect dick. It throbbed with the desire to be touched, the tip dampened with his own precum, and he was tempted to just plunge into his brother and fuck him near-dry.

But Stan wasn't  _primitive_ , as Ford would have called him. He also didn't want to hurt Ford because even if his brother could be an obstinate little bitch, he would never.

Panting softly, Ford's eyes opened to investigate why the touches had ceased, and he adjusted his glasses to peer at Stan and start to half-question, half-demand, " _Stanley_ , why… why did you..." as Ford seemed to notice his freed erection, he could see him swallow thickly, "oh."

"Like what you see, Sixer?" Stan's voice was husky from the arousal.

Ford smiled a little, still appearing dazed as he breathed a gentle, "mm-hmm." A burst of satisfaction trickled through Stan, chest puffing proudly;  _this_ was where he'd wanted Ford, the point where he was so worked up that he couldn't formulate a smartass comment even if he wished to.

"You're much nicer when you're cooperative for a change."

"Come on, Stan," he mumbled, his head falling back again with his gaze raised to the ceiling. All Stan could see was the sweet red of his blush-stained cheeks, and his neck that was covered in forming hickeys, marks of possession. "Don't… don't tease."

"Darlin', I don't plan to tease. Ya got lube down here or somethin'?"

Sitting up again, there was a hunger in Ford's eyes as he seemed to regain enough clarity to lucidly answer, "Third drawer in the filing cabinet to your right. Condoms too." A dip of his head indicated the spot.

He was about to move to grab it before what he'd said hit him.  _Condoms_?

Stan scowled gently, realizing  _very_  quickly that Ford only had them down here because he had been sleeping with Fiddleford, and he bristled at the thought of someone touching Ford, someone that wasn't him. Ford was  _his_  and only  _his_ , and he was getting sick of everyone trying to take Ford away. First Fiddleford, then Dipper, and Stan internally swore he would strangle them if they so much looked at him again.

Determined to claim Ford as his, utterly and totally  _ruin_ him, he went right to the filing cabinet and retrieved both the lube and the condoms. Returning to Ford, he shuffled to strip Ford of his boxers, easily lifting his hips to remove the garment from his body. Although he didn't know how it was possible, Ford seemed to blush even brighter at that, his quivering legs shielding Stan's gaze from him.

Using his hands to part Ford's legs again, Stan tsked at him. "Sixer, you're not fourteen anymore, and it ain't like we haven't been here before." Ignoring the daggers Ford glared at him, he was preoccupied by his own thoughts — they hadn't been that age when they started going all the way, but Ford always had a tendency to hide during intimacy.

He settled between Ford's thighs to prevent him from closing them, taking in the view. Stan was enjoying the sight of Ford's exposed cock and ass, and he affectionately gave his dick a couple strokes using the small amount of precum pooled on his stomach before he squeezed some lube onto his fingers, rubbing it to create a sticky coating on his hand.

Seemingly distracted by being touched once more, directly this time, Ford's eyes closed in ecstacy with a light keen erupting from within him.

With a chorus of Ford's noises filling the silence, Stan aligned his lube-coated fingers to Ford's entrance, slowly and carefully pushing them into his brother. The last thing he wanted to do was injure him during the preparation since the entire ordeal would then likely end in failure soon afterward. His hole was something to be cherished and ruined only by his cock.

Ford's breathing was erratic and so heavy, his chest rising and falling as Stan continued to rub him, fingers squeezing and grasping and curling around his cock as he applied different amounts of pressure. Delicate sounds of pleasure escaped Ford with every movement, and he inhaled sharply as Stan started to finger him open, loosening him just enough to make the next part painless. "Stan, oh—  _oh_ ," Ford panted, and Stan could feel him push against him as if begging for more of the friction, "...f-feels amazing."

Stan grinned. Of course it felt amazing, it was  _him_  doing it, and Ford's noises were nothing less than music to his ears. Maybe a massive boost to his ego, too. He continued to finger his brother, slipping in a third slicked finger to ensure his brother was properly prepared for his cock. Once he believed Ford was adequately stretched, Stan withdrew his fingers—including his hand that stroked Ford's dick–to rip open the condom wrapper and roll the rubber onto his own erection. Stan always hated how it felt, how it was still a barrier between them, even though it wasn't the worst feeling in the world. Just annoying, especially when coupled with why Ford had condoms down here in the first place.

Squeezing lube onto his palm, he ran his hand down his cock to spread the substance onto the condom, hissing at the sensation since it was the first time he'd been touched directly during this encounter. It took only a moment, and then he was pressing the head to Ford's hole, drawing a slow breath inward. This was it. Ford would finally be his again after all these years, and he wanted to make sure Ford knew that. "Dipper and Fiddleford can enjoy knowing they don't have a chance with you once I'm done," he growled lowly. "I'm not letting you go again. You're  _mine_ , Stanford." In the next moment his entire length was plunging into him, cutting off the reply resting on the tip of Ford's tongue to replace it with a sharp moan — good, he thought, that was better than a sarcastic remark any day. Stan grunted at the sudden warmth and pressure surrounding him, but he stole a glance at Ford, relieved to see no traces of pain.

Taking that as a signal to continue, not that he could've found the patience to wait much longer, Stan started to move at a rigorous pace, one hand keeping his balance while the other grasped tightly at his brother's hipbone.

Shuddering and writhing, a series of moans fell from Ford's lips, back arching again as Stan continued to thrust into him almost aggressively. He was unwavering in his intention to show that Ford was  _his_ , and his alone. Bodies jolting with every aggressive thrust, he could see Ford's hands scramble for purchase against the cloth of the couch as his body rocked with Stan driving into him, the tempo merciless. And best of all, Ford seemed to be loving it with how he was begging him, crying out for more.

"Sta- _Stanley_ , ah!" Ford whined, trying to meet his thrusts halfway in an attempt to generate more friction. Angling his hips, Stan tried to remember… And he knew he'd done well when a  _scream_ ripped from Ford, a convulsion overtaking him. "R-right there, oh god _, oh god—_ Stan!" Feeling accomplished in his ability to reduce Ford to this, Stan was more than happy to indulge him, slamming forward with all the strength he could muster.

With Ford's moans of pleasure indicating he was continuing to hit that sweet spot, Stan threw timing to the wind and let his hips snap wildly to Ford's with each rapid thrust. He was done trying to maintain a rhythmic pace, too close to give a damn as the coil in his stomach wound tighter and tighter.

"Just a b-bit... just a… a little  _more—_ " he babbled half-coherently through a strained voice, an telltale sign to Stan that he was getting close, "St— _ah_ —Stanley,  _please_."

Beads of perspiration gathering on his forehead, Stan's pace was slowing despite his best efforts to keep them up, his breathing growing ragged as he felt his own orgasm near. His hand moved to touch Ford once more as he pounded into him, stroking his cock because if he could just get Ford to finish… " _Oh fuck,_  Ford," he grunted, breathing heavily, "you've… you've been so good— want you to cum for me, darlin'."

That seemed to send Ford over the edge and with a loud wail of Stan's name, Ford hit his peak, suddenly reduced to shaky gasps for air while his entire body tensed and spasmed. He grunted as Ford's cock twitched, cum spurting onto his soft belly, dangerously close to the fabric of his rucked-up dress shirt.

With a final thrust into his brother, Stan followed suit, unable to hold out any longer with Ford's walls squeezing so snugly around him, spurring on his climax until pleasure was all he knew. It felt like his other senses entirely blanked out, leaving nothing but the blissful feeling of an orgasmic high.

It took him a moment to pull out, dazed as his softening cock was released from Ford's hole, his brother whining lightly at the feeling. Stan watched as the excess lube oozed from him, spilling onto the couch. Ford hadn't moved yet, still looking like he was completely oblivious to his surroundings and trapped on cloud nine.

Smirking, Stan slid the condom off himself, tied it, and tossed it toward a nearby trash can. It landed with a soft rustling noise, and he returned his attention back to Ford.  _His_ Ford.

"That was fun," he breathed. "Wish we'd done it sooner. And a lot more."

He received a light, noncommittal hum in reply, though he couldn't tell if it was an agreement.

Stan shuffled to join Ford's side, his arms wrapping loosely around his sweaty frame. "I could sleep for a year."

Ford's reply was dry, a bit hoarse, "Shocking." Stan never had been great at staying awake after sex, because in his opinion that was a time for peaceful, post-orgasm sleep. He caught a fleeting, semi-wavering smile on Ford's face and kissed the corner of his lips.

"I missed ya, Sixer. You held out on me for way too damn long." Affectionately nuzzling into Ford, a lazy chuckle rumbled deep in his throat. Pressed against him, he could feel Ford gradually coming down from his orgasm in how his muscles seemed to relax into puddles, his breathing far less labored than it had been a mere minute ago.

When Ford didn't reply, Stan shifted to sit up by putting his weight on his elbow, glancing at his face curiously. His eyebrows were furrowed in thought, and Stan narrowed his eyes. He didn't like the look of that expression, knowing it far too well. It was his 'thinking' face and it meant something shitty was about to happen.

Like Ford freaking out over  _them_.

A chill washed over Stan. That was exactly what was going to happen. Ford was going to panic, and he needed to stop it before it snowballed.

"Darlin'," he said slowly in an attempt to get his attention. It didn't work, so he nudged him gently. Worried by the lack of response, Stan's urgency spiked. "Ford? Look at me, damn it!"

The growl seemed to finally,  _fucking finally_ , stir something in Ford, but when he turned to face him… that broken, desolate look of terror ingrained into Ford's expression turned his blood cold.

He wished he'd never said a word, and frustration bubbled within him — this wasn't how it was supposed to be.

Ford seemed frozen, like he was about to speak but stopped himself, timidly biting his lip as he appeared to struggle with something internally. That horribly ominous  _look_ , the one he reserved for complex math problems, was back on his face, and Stan fought to come up with something that'd snap him out of this. Stan knew that the more Ford thought about it, over analyzing every single thing, the more he'd freak out, the worse this would be.

When he spoke, it was slow and deliberate as if he'd rehearsed it, hashed it over in his mind a million times already. "I… I don't think we should have done that." Ford returned to chewing at his lip, uncertainty in his gaze.

"What?" Stan didn't know what he meant. "We didn't do anything wrong." No, no, no, god fucking dammit. Ford  _wasn't_  doing this. He couldn't take this away, not right after they were so close to mending their relationship...

"But Stanley, it's…  _complicated_. We—"

Stan cut into his protest, "Don't do this, Sixer. You're just overthinking things."

"It was a mistake, Stan." Ford's voice cracked with emotion, he looked and sounded wrecked.

"No," he insisted. "It's not a mistake. It's never been." Why was he starting this  _now_? Everything was going fine! "Please, Sixer. Stop listening to that noggin' of yours for once. We were meant to do this."

His reply only seemed to wound Ford further, causing him to recoil back. "No, listen to me. We  _can't_ , we— we shouldn't have. It was…"

Now he was just repeating himself. "It wasn't a mistake, Sixer. Stop saying it was." He didn't have to finish, Stan knew and hated what he'd been about to say.

"But it  _was_ ," he insisted brokenly, eyes averting. "I lost control, got caught up in everything, and… and I should've been able to stop myself but I  _didn't_ and now… now this happened."

Stan scoffed. "Darlin', the only reason you 'lost control' was 'cause you've been wanting this as much as I have. Nothin' wrong with that."

Fidgeting, Ford squirmed away from him and relocated to a different cushion, pulling on his boxers and then slacks ashamedly. He could hear the quake in his voice as he said, "It'd… it'd be best if you simply left."

"You're kickin' me out?" Stan wasn't expecting that… and to be honest, the thought hurt. Why was he being difficult?

"I'm asking you to leave," Ford murmured, pained.

"I just wanted to cuddle." His voice had grown sad. Why did everyone he love kick him out?

"No! That's what lo—" he shook his head, instead settling on, "...please leave."

This couldn't be happening. "What,  _lovers_? You're scared of being lovers after we've fucked a hundred and a half times?"

Ford flinched as if he'd been hit, taking in a couple ragged, panicked breaths. "Stanley, stop."

Stan's resolve was crumbling, and… and he didn't know what to do because Ford looked terrified, like Stan staying was the worst thing in the world. It was killing him, the knife twisting through his stomach. " _Please_ , Ford." The word burned his tongue, but the fact that he was using it should tell Ford how much this—he—meant to him.

Desperation lapping at him, his fists clenched as Ford blinked owlishly with those big, worried eyes, wordlessly and slowly shaking his head.

He looked like he wanted to cry.

Fuck.  _FUCK_.

The situation slipping out of control fast, Stan realized he was out of options. Ford wasn't going to budge, and as much as he wanted to stay… he didn't want to look into those sad brown eyes any longer. "Fine," he caved. "I'll leave."

Stan dragged himself off the couch, grabbing his boxers from the floor as he stood and made himself decent. Lingering in the doorway with a small piece of him still wishing, still clinging to hope, he glanced back at Ford before he left and wondered silently how they went from having a moment of passion to this.

It was no use when he saw that Ford had curled in on himself, facing away.

All he could think about was how this wasn't what he'd wanted. It wasn't how it was supposed to go.

His heart ached. It felt like it was physically breaking. Everything he'd wanted, everything he'd  _had_ , just gone.

Going down the hallway, Stan found his way into the living room and collapsed onto his armchair. He wasn't ready to go to bed yet… and he wanted to enjoy the company of the only thing that'd never leave him.

Or hurt him.

Or hate him.

His television.


End file.
